


Clockwork Watcher

by SkadiTheHuntress



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Harry works for Mycroft, M/M, Magic, Magic Revealed, Wandless Magic, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:51:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkadiTheHuntress/pseuds/SkadiTheHuntress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Man who already controls almost half of the world could have had it all, if he had just reached across the car and shaken hands with the man in whose company he already spends almost every waking hour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Junkie

This was not the place Harry Potter had thought years ago he would eventually find himself at. He had had an idea that he would, after a long and exciting life as an auror, grow old and grumpy and grey-haired, and most likely retire somewhere near magical London to enjoy the last passing years of his life. He had certainly deserved that. Anyone who wanted to argue were told to have a word with Hermione Granger, who quickly whipped their asses back on track.

Therefore, it can be fairly said that leaving his position as a promising auror at young age of 27 had not occurred to Harry during his early years of duty. Neither had the reason he then later left, before it had presented itself before him as a stone hard fact.

He was bored.

So utterly bored, that the stillness started to burn within his veins like thick goo, preventing his normal blood flow and making his skin itch. Adventure had been like extra-oxygen fed to him and now it was hard to breath, suddenly without it. You see, oxygen gets you high. It's the same thing with adrenaline. Just like the third cup of coffee in the morning when earlier ones have just settled in. The risk of losing his life had became Harry's way of escaping the dull life of wizards of the New Age.

As always after a war, just like in muggle wars, the ever thinner growing circle of "the bad guys" - the Death Eaters - did not offer the challenge the Wizard World had originally presumed. After all, when the tight leash Voldemort had held his followers in vanished, so did Death Eater's enthusiasm. Oh, there were still the old-fashioned fanatics who thought the old traditions and courtship should be respected, and the new more muggle-friendly ones banished. Of course there were, but instead of running around, cursing people faster than they could count they took subtle terms into their politics: less radicalism, less violence. They became part of the new Ministry of Magic willingly which made many people let out heavy, relieved sighs.

For Harry this had meant more paperwork. God, he hated paperwork.

The mingling between the magical and non-magical world became considerably less cautious but more strictly surveilled. Most people even knew the function of rubber duck these days, after they had realized that muggles weren't _actually_ poisonous like few of the pureblood families had insisted. The education was blooming now that the old lines of the Houses were smudged by the two dead Lords, other of Light and other of Dark, and also by the passing shadow of the war.

Suddenly people had new connections, replacing the generations old ones. Everyone's fate was connected from one to another through sympathies for the lost members of the family. And also, to their own saviors, no matter the House they had been sorted into before the war. They had new determination. There were no routes made ready for the witches and wizards of the New Age for now they had to make their own.

War criminals were judged and imprisoned. New laws were passed. And so, all was good in the world.

That's how _he_ ended up _here_.

It's nothing too remarkable, the office he is situated in. The floor is wooden, lined with scratches from the tables and office chairs and black high-heels. The windows are large, but half-way shut window-blinds make them seem smaller than they actually are. The air smells of copy-paper and plastic plants.

It certainly seems like an office but Harry is neither dim nor trustful by nature. From the corner of his eye he can see the unblinking eye of a camera staring right at his profile. The room around the actual office is much like a sitting room but from Harry's point of view it resembles observing room more than anything else. A bit like a huge aquarium where Harry is the fish that is expected to get disturbed when someone knocks on the glass.

There are several other cameras situated around the dark corners of the place, some more visible than others. Without doubt there are microphones too; maybe in the higher, inner corner of the coffee table's leg or under the pot of a very innocent looking plastic plant.

He could make them all useless with one word. With a jerk of his finger. With a bat of eyelashes.

He doesn't though and settles in burying his hands deep into the pockets of his faded grey sweater. He is so out of place in this silly little stage, build up just for him. Still, he has to give points for the dramatics, the sheer depth and carefulness of it, as everything is built to the smallest detail.

As much as it seems like a normal job-interview, Harry knows better than to believe that. This is going to be something extraordinary. Honestly though, he does not know what to expect. Only very few people from the muggle ministry and government know that magic exists in the first place. Despite many complains, mostly from the pureblood's direction, there had to be _some_  since how else would they explain how London's Millennium Footbridge had suddenly twisted around and around, and finally crumbled into Thames during the Second Wizard War. They couldn't _Obliviate_ the whole nation after all. It was a delicate line between the worlds. If wizards and witches would become too familiar with muggles, some greedy little wand-waver would eventually sell their world to them. Or other way around. The last thing they needed in the slowly healing Wizard World was guns and drugs and nuclear weapons.

The door behind Harry creaks open. The man he sees is nothing like what he had imagined him to be. First of all, he is  _mousy_. His face is long, lined with age and his eyes clear but watery, adding into greyish-blue color. Man has a fine brown hairline but at the top of his head he has a bald spot. Quietly Harry wonders if it is stress-baldness, if the man rubs it every time he is in trouble. In that case, it seems that the man gets into trouble a lot.

That thought sends a pleasant shiver down Harry's spine but he refuses to shudder.

The man has a small nose which he scratches quickly before shaking Harry's hand. It is dry and warm against his.

"So sorry to keep you waiting, young man. Please, sit down. I am Jonathan Eddings as you may know. I hold a rather important position in the government."

Harry answers him with a quick, thin lipped smile and nods. He sits down again and the uncomfortable office chair digs its hard lines into his back. The other man, his future employer and the so called British Government, shuffles to the other side of the table and sits down with a soft huff.

"I'm Harold."

Today Harry is Harold. Tomorrow he may be something else. Maybe. He quite likes the name Harold: it makes him sound older and wiser. On the other hand it makes him sound like a butler.

"Ah, yes, yes…" The man mutters, shifts and rubs his nose again. It strongly strikes to Harry as _wrong!_ but he ignores the feeling for now. His fingertips rub excitedly together inside his hoodie-pocket.

"You have quite admirable list of referees and yet, I haven't heard much about you in particular. It seems that you are a man without reputation."

The man - Jonathan Eddings - stares at him and waits for an explanation. He eyes Harry's faded sweater and jeans with poorly hidden distaste.

"I believe it is not a good thing to have a reputation in this line of duty," Harry says without breaking a sweat. This is his job, he knows what he is doing. Again: _wrong!_ How can this man, the man who has earned himself such dangerous name, not understand such simple thing? Harry's bad fashion choices do not affect his capability to work at maximum potential. This isn't what muggles consider a genius, is he? Harry hasn't been out of this world _that_ long.

"Quite so. Well then, why do you think you would be the best person for the job?"

Harry leans back in his chair, staring at the man with indifferent face but behind it, his mind is whirring. He decides to speak just for the worth of speaking. These ordinary, depthless questions are putting him off, big time.

"I have experience in several areas of importance for this job. I'm very well organized, courteous and," he leans toward the man, baring several teeth in his self-assured smile he saves for situations just like this. "I'm quite clever."

This whole thing is like a pig in a bag. He can smell the _wrong!_ all over it. The man he wanted to meet would not ask such boring, ordinary questions from him. "The British Government" would not rub his nose when he is nervous about his new employee and he definitely would not own an office with fake plants. Actually, Harry has a feeling there would be no interview at all to get to him, but a test.

_Oh!_

"Is that so?" Jonathan Eddings says but doesn't look too pleased at Harry's revelation. "That doesn't really matter though. I'm looking for a bodyguard, not for the second coming of Einstein. No matter, if you can keep your mouth shut I think we will get along quite pleasantly. I do so hate people who show off."

"I'm not just a bodyguard," Harry says and the man across the table raises his thick eyebrow. Harry cannot see this however, because he is staring straight at the camera on his right. Cleverly hidden little thing but Harry can see it plain as a day, a stark, hollow construct - a gaping hole of soulless, whirring electronics - in the magic surrounding him.

"And I'm not someone you can just trick that easily either. Honestly, did you think this would work on me?"

"Excuse me?" The man hesitates and Harry turns to look at the minister again. Jonathan Eddings seems rather bewildered and Harry snaps his mouth shut.

What?

"What do you mean by that?" The man, with a very real bald-spot on his head demands and sounds quite put off. "I do not need a bodyguard who doesn't know his place. I need a shadow behind me! Someone who I can rely on, no matter what the situation. I don't need a smart-mouthed young man!"

 _What?_ Had he… Had Harry _miscalculated_? But he does trust his contacts, this _has to be_ the British Government, unless…

Harry taps his fingers against the office chair. Twice. He stares at the man across him and blinks slowly behind his glasses. The chair behind Jonathan Eddings has adjusted into man's shape and there is a packet of handkerchiefs on the table. The boring painting of a summer landscape on the wall is signed _S. Eddings_ , as in probably Jonathan Eddings' wife or daughter.

This is Jonathan Eddings' office. He is really in need of an employee, a bodyguard. Not an actor then, Harry wonders and taps his fingers against his chair again. Slowly his smile widens into a full-blown grin which he smothers quickly. He bites the pad of his finger to keep down the bubbling excitement within his belly.

Oh, there was a clever, _clever_ person behind this test. Double test, just to confuse him. Already, Harry is quite smitten.

("I'm sorry, Mr. Eddings. I do not think I'm suitable for the job after all.")

 

* * *

 

If excitement would be a drug and sold in a bottle, Harry would be a drug addict. Those were his exact thoughts when he followed a beautiful woman called Anthea across the building. It was like the whole place was purely made of glass and metal like a very expensive, very ordinary looking piece of art hidden in the plain sight. Harry had a feeling the glass was bullet-proof, however.

He smirked behind his hand and bit the pad of his middle finger again.

His steps clacked quietly after Anthea's high-heels' sharp snaps. If models were ninjas, Anthea would be a perfect example. She had her long brown hair tied high up into neat ponytail at the back of her head and she was wearing a grey, flexible looking jacket. Instead of a skirt Anthea had grey, straight pants and in her hand the latest model of iPad. After she had told him to follow her, Anthea hadn't spared him a glance. When they had turned at the corner, Harry had thought he had seen a shape of a knife press into the fabric of her pants from her shin.

Oh yes, if excitement would be a drug, Harry would gladly become a junkie. To his amusement, his new (this time hopefully the real) employer seemed to be the next best thing.

As they walked he was lead through a very humble looking wooden door.

"He is the only one who passed," Anthea stated without greeting the man before her.

On the very second Harry hid his feelings behind indifferent mask, even though he was quite sure this man had seen him approaching through several cameras on the way. He had to be aware of Harry's gleeful feelings which left masking his emotions the only option to save his professionalism. If he was lucky, his acting skills might even impress the man.

Said man had nothing on the table, except for a very fancy looking cup of tea. He stood up instantly when they entered the room. Harry couldn't help but admire the sheer elegance the man moved with, since he himself didn't own any of the kind. He had never quite gotten over his awkward teenage grow-spurt which had left him with suddenly too long limbs and hair everywhere. The hair had been easy enough to handle, thank God, but the occasional stumbling had stuck.

"Good evening, Harold," the man said and leaned his hip against the table. "I am truly delighted to make your acquaintance. Would you like to have a seat?"

"No, thank you," Harry answered and pushed his round glasses a bit higher on his nose. He straightened his posture automatically and pressed his palms together behind his back. In this scenario he was the soldier ready to obey and this man was to be his commander. How utterly delightful idea.

This was more like what the personification of the British Government was supposed to look like. He looked polite from head to toes. There was nothing too remarkable at the first sight of the man with his average face. He was not strikingly attractive but he couldn't be called ugly either. His face was merely pleasant to look at. Under the three piece suit Harry could tell that the man was not thin as a brick, but the softness around his belly was not that noticeable. He wasn't much older than Harry either, who was now in his early thirties. If one bothered to look past all that, there was certain sharpness in his eyes and proud raise in his chin, barely noticeable but there. This man had authority people weren't even aware of and it made Harry's blood boil in a very pleasant way.

"You have friends in high places," the smug looking man said, "but not in too many, which is preferred", he continued smoothly and wiped invisible (or microscopically small) dust ball from his desk.

"I am rather pleased by your referees but naturally it was for the best if I tested you myself."

"And I passed?"

"With flying marks," the man gave him a smile that did not look as impressed as it could have. Harry didn't smile back either. He hadn't expected any pats on the head for the job well done. His job was to do the job well done, so praising him for it would be like singing praises to the milk-man for delivering the milk.

"You were recommended by the head of the National Special Defense Unit which is more than telling. People there have always been very keen to… accomplish things."

"Accomplishing" might have been a wrong word for it. "Legendary" would fit them much better since the whole branch of National Special Defense Unit consisted of muggleborn witches and wizards, who struggled to keep the whole Wizard World hidden. And with magic on their side they could, quite literally, accomplish almost anything in the muggle world. People from that particular Unit must have sounded like stuff of legends.

But the way this man said the name of their branch - with as much admiration as annoyance - is what makes Harry smile inwardly. He knew this man did not know of magic, that Harry knew as he had learned the names and faces of everyone who did in the British muggle Government. Those who did not know were strictly kept out of the matters of the Unit, and with  _magic_ it was possible to be kept this way.

"Thank you, sir. Before we go on, I have been asked to inform you that wherever the contract we might later on make, take this partnership, I am not under any circumstances allowed to reveal any information about my previous work with the Unit."

First Harry had thought this would be annoying rule, and it would most likely become that given enough time. But right now, he just wanted to face keeping his world hidden as a challenge, even from this wonderful, exciting, _scary_ man. The fact that he would have to keep his true talents hidden did not come as a surprise. He was freelancing and he had no intention of revealing their world to every person who came along.

The man hummed to himself under his breath and nodded.

"I would not ask that from you. It is not why I sought your services and it would make me seem highly unprofessional, not to mention irresolute and un-resourceful. Now then," the man opened his palm and Anthea gives him the iPad without a word. The man has soft ginger hair, Harry notices, as the man starts to read whatever is in front of him.

What the black haired wizard hears next is a total surprise. The only response it draws out of him however, is the quiet clenching of his fists behind his back.

"Harry James Potter, son of Lily Potter nee Evans and James Potter. Both biological parents dead since you turned one. Turned in custody of Petunia Dursley nee Evans and Vernon Dursley, with their son Dudley Dursley. Attended Little Surrey's public elementary and secondary school: average grades, but you seemed to be a bit of a troublemaker, Mr. Potter. No identified mental issues, average growth and health tough maybe a bit underweight. No criminal record, no unpaid bills. However there are no records of you, what so ever, after you turned eleven years-old."

The man raises his gaze from the white screen and Harry resists the temptation to swallow. Damn his muggle records. He has never needed them before and he certainly has never bothered to check them. On the bright side, at least they did not read St Brutus' as uncle Vernon had once or twice threatened.

"The thing is, Mr. Potter," the man says and presses his lips together momentarily before continuing, "that logically there should be something: school records, accounts, bills, health care reports, et cetera. And yet, nothing. Not even a tiniest mark anywhere in the whole system. It is like you have managed to vanish altogether at the age of eleven."

The man looks on his left and touches the handle of a black umbrella which is resting in a holder. The hand drops at his side again and he meets Harry's gaze with a bit of wonder in his eyes.

"The _most_ interesting thing is however, that Mr. and Mrs. Dursley are convinced that you have never lived under their roof. So the question remains the same: how might this be?"

 _Ah_ , Harry thinks and his gaze falls to the floor, _this is going to be awkward_. He humors the possibilities in his head before answering.

"They never liked me that much. Even when I lived there they were busy telling the neighbors that I wasn't their child. I'm not surprised they told you that."

The man raises his eyebrow elegantly and seems to consider the new information.

"They lied to official records about you?"

Harry huffs and his mouth quirks a little in a humorless smile.

"Most certainly. If they have a chance of any kind to officially wipe out my entire existence they would gladly take it."

"And why would that be the case?"

Harry glances towards the other but is not put off by his show of sympathy. This man doesn't want to hear a sob story about his abused childhood, about cupboards and angry bulldogs. He wants to hear if there is something wrong with Harry: what was the thing that made his supposed guardians hate him so much, and if his nature will affect the job. As a passing thought, Harry also wonders if the smug-looking man thinks he is lying. He has no way of knowing if Harry did actually ever live under the roof of the Dursleys. Oh, but the neighbors, they would have told him they had seen Harry run around as a thinner-than-paper 11 years-old kid. And if not, Harry has a feeling this man could find it out some other, mysterious way. That settles it then.

"Aunt Petunia had a personal reason to hate my mother which in turn made her hate me. And of course that passed off to uncle Vernon and Dudley."

Harry shrugs nonchalantly. There isn't much else to say and to be fair, he has told the truth. Well, a half-truth but still. Harry fails to remember if leaving out information was considered lying or not.

"And after you left Little Surrey?"

"Private school and a job undercover, hence the missing records. Later I worked with the Unit. I was handpicked to work there."

There is so much more he could say, so many things he could tell in order to impress this man. He has fought basilisks, dragons, dementors and he has made a successful burglary into one of the world's most protected places and killed a Dark Lord. And yet, he cannot say a thing. If the man cannot deduce his abilities from the shine of his eyes Harry is going to be very disappointed. This all has seemed very interesting so far.

"Well, this has been very interesting so far," the man says and Harry blinks, wondering if that was merely a coincidence. "You may consider yourself… reinforced."

Harry bows shortly, feeling a bit stupid afterwards but with bubbles of happiness making his stomach turn upside down, he doesn't really care. He leaves the room without looking back, his face still a mask of casual indifference.

That had been all he needed to hear.

* * *

 

His job does not immediately get exciting. He is just a secondary assistant, even thought that seems to be a wrong word again. People seem to confuse a lot of things. He is more like the secondary whatever-the-Man-requires. And yes, the Man with capital M. He still hasn't heard his employer's name but that doesn't bother him much. He would be none the wiser with the Man's name.

So far Harry has been a bag-carrier (he wasn't allowed to shake the briefcase at all for some reason), a personal driver (be at the 221b Baker Street, 3. 43 a.m. sharp), a messenger (Oh, excuse me, your majesty) and even an errand boy (tea, dash of milk, half spoonful of sugar). So far he hasn't minded since he has had so much to observe. The people the Man meets are always important people: celebrities, politicians and bankers, with important notes and silently whispered scandals of one another. There are beauties, manipulators, wicked ones, violent ones, cheaters and bribers, and yet the Man charms them all. He attaches the needed strings together or sometimes breaks the ones that cause harm. He swarms past them all with casual politeness and sharp eyes and carefully chosen words. Pressure points. Sometimes even with thinly veiled threats but those treats are rarer, and Harry treasures each and every one of them.

Harry remains continuously more and more impressed. And it is not an easy task to impress him after the life he has lived. No wonder the Man looks as smug as humanly possible whenever he can afford it. Harry would too, if he could run entire government, not to mention a whole country as effortlessly as the smarmy Man.

When Anthea (or Mary, Helen, Amelia) asks him to come with her he knows something has shifted. What follows is really not an easy day. He gets thrown, punched and stabbed, even almost shot but Anthea seems rather pleased with him afterwards and nods at Harry when he finally gets to swipe some sweat off his forehead.

The word of the day is "schedule" now and forever, Anthea (today Valkyrie) tells him (today Hamish) softly, when they sit across the Man in a fancy Bentley. Harry feels outrageously out of place but ignores the useless feeling of slight embarrassment. He probably seems pathetic in his faded sweater, the piece of clothing radiating the difference between him and the sleek surface of the car bench. He does not belong and yet he yearns to remain. The man in three piece suit doesn't seem to mind this decision of his.

Each and every minute of the Man's life is carefully scheduled and organized to the finest detail, and little by little, it becomes Harry's job to alter those details. He makes appointments and reservations, informs the Man's other employees whenever they are needed and in turn informs the Man of the movements of the others. He is continuously impressed by the resources the Man has in his reach, the people he knows, the information he has within reach at all times. Sometimes Harry wonders if the Man is a humanoid of some kind with a computer inside his head instead of brains. 

As time goes on Harry becomes an expert in counting minutes and being aware of every hour. He even has a phone now which puts him on edge. Suddenly he knows every minute of the Man's life but nothing about the Man himself. In a way it is exciting.

In a way it is sad.

This partnership could be so much more, given enough time. The British Government and the Savior of the Wizard World, working together; the man with all the assets a muggle can possibly have and a trained auror with magic strong enough to kill a Lord.

They could rule the world together if they wanted. Imagine that.

Harry bites the pad of his middle finger to hide his grin. He knows they would never do that and Harry himself wouldn't really want the responsibility. But the fact that they _could_ do it if they wanted to, gives his brain a doze of barely contained exhilaration.

The Man stares at him across the car and for a second it feels like he can understand the meaning of pure fire behind Harry's gaze. The moment passes, nothing happens and the Man frowns, looking out of window into the rainy London.

The Man who already controls almost half of the world could have had it all, if he had just reached across the car and shaken hands with the man in whose company he already spends almost every waking hour.

 

* * *

 

 It takes some time to get to see the Man as human and not as the British Government (or a humanoid). Surprisingly, all it takes in the end is a long and exhausting business meeting. And a cake.

Harry (today Henry) is seated beside his employer in one their most usual meeting places and picks at his fried vegetables. His eyes secretly follow the businessman across the table, who chats at his boss with animated hand signs. _Maybe he is originally Italian_ , Harry thinks as he taps at his phone in order to look uninterested in all the while continuing conversation. It is all in order to give the men a fake feeling of privacy. Here, in this situation, Harry does not exists and it fits him just fine.

It is the change in his usually so smug employer that catches his attention immediately, when the maybe-Italian suggests they move on to dessert. His shoulders don't slump or his posture doesn't change, but the silent, world-weary sighs that leaves his thin lips is heavy enough to crush a whole building. Harry stops chewing and looks at the Man from the corner of his eye.

"I think I shall refrain myself from such small pleasur-"

"Nonsense, dear man! This place has such lovely chocolate cake that I have to insist you to try it! Ehm, Janet! Janet, dear, would you bring us some of that lovely cake you were talking about earlier? Thank you, darling!"

The Man's hand twitches and Harry is momentarily distracted by the thin, blunt fingers and slightly larger joints. The ginger haired man licks his lips, swallows his annoyance and crosses his hands as if getting ready to resist a temptation. He clears his throat and scans the room with his eyes, clearly looking for a distraction. He looks almost miserable. Harry in turn swallows a carrot and wonders.

What the other politician just did was rude and probably an unfortunately big blow to his employer's ego, since the man is so used to everyone listening to even his tiniest wishes. The whole situation must have irritated the Man a lot more than he lets on. Harry, who has this whole time played with his new phone anyway, starts clicking away with it, this time with a proper goal.

When Janet-the-waitress arrives a few minutes after, she is holding one piece of chocolate cake and a new glass of water. She places each of the items before her customers.

"I'm sorry, dear, but we ordered two pieces of cake."

Janet blinks twice at their guest.

"Mr. Holmes originally preferred to have none, sir. Now, excuse me."

Two politicians are left sitting in silence at the table, other looking flustered while the other looks as if nothing out of ordinary has happened. His employer, Mr. Holmes, has a damn fine poker face, Harry has to give him that.

Later when their guest excuses himself from their company, face still burning with humiliation of his orders being over-written, Harry and the Man stay in their places for a while. Finally Mr. Holmes' mouth turns into a pleased smile.

"That was very clever of you, Henry."

"Thank you, sir. What he did was rather rude," Harry murmurs as he stabs his fork through unresisting onion, "and his hands annoyed me."

Later in Bentley Harry raises his eyebrows at his boss as he listens him humming quietly, deep in his thought. Apart from that, rest of their day is spent in what to Harry seems to be a companionable silence.

If he later that evening receives a whole new wardrobe, he just counts it as a small personal victory.

 

* * *

 

"We are counting on you, Hans," Anthea's voice whispers to Harry from small mike that is fitted snugly in his left ear. Harry nods more to himself than to anyone else. And well, it is not like no one can see him.

Today is his day. A day made clear just for him. At least it almost feels like that but truthfully he is doing one of his latest job adjustments. Burglary isn't something new to him but Mr. Holmes doesn't need to know that. For once, he can be left guessing.

The thing Harry is supposed to retrieve is not his business, nothing interesting and top secret. So, of course he had jumped on a chance to find out what the whole hassle was all about.

The first problem awaits him at the gates of the manor.

It is a beautiful place really, fateful to its Victorian style from the paving to fountains. It is something Harry had once imagined Malfoy Manor to be like. The problem is that it is loaded with cameras, motion-detectors and other electrical equipment Harry has absolute zero interest in. And what he needs is inside the manor so obviously he first needs to get past all these little welcoming-presents the owner of the manor has installed for him.

Harry almost feels bad for him. Or her. He really doesn't care either way.

He knows the Man and Anthea are listening to his every move from the electrical equipment wired on him and it feels a bit uncomfortable. Absently he scratches his cheek and wonders if Mr. Holmes will be cross with him if he destroys them. Probably not if it gets his job done, it is not like the smug bastard doesn't have enough money to buy him new ones.

Harry looks down to the wire which disappears under his clothes like a small snake. He really hasn't looked like himself since the Man renewed his wardrobe. Nowadays he is wearing smart looking black pants which can only be described as airy since they are so soft and stretchable. Also, he has the shiniest shoes he has ever owned. He wears a quite dashing grey jacket that comes down to his tights and under it a black vest, almost like a proper butler. The grey shirt and tie seem to blend together. All these, with his short raven-black hair and round glasses, he could be mistaken for Oxford University student who has wandered far from home.

It is sad that there is no one around to appreciate his looks as he makes his first burglary under Mr. Holmes' name. He is one handsome thief.

Harry looks up and over the iron gates of the manor and runs his hand over the stony walls surrounding the place. He spots a camera and stares right at it.

He lets his magic breathe a little.

There is quiet whirring, electrical cracking and few flying light-spots in the air, like small stars that burn brightly for a second before dying. The ever-moving cameras stop. The streetlamps flicker and leave Harry in the darkness to listen to the silence. Even his microphone died, disconnecting him from his employer and coworker. Magic really doesn't go with science.

Harry bites the pad of his middle finger in his excitement and snatches his wand from the holder on his wrist. He opens the gate with simple _Alohomora_ and rejoices of the wonderful feeling of using his magic again. It's really been too long. The break in is a piece of cake to him but he is not stupid enough to go in without a pair of gloves. What an embarrassment it would be, if he would be caught because he left fingerprints to the crime scene. The laughs it would cause would not be worth the paperwork.

The front door opens quietly before him as Harry steps through it. His shoes click against the marble floor and he has to cast _Muffliato_ to keep his steps silent. His new shiny shoes seem to have developed a fault. The door closes behind him as he starts his search.

Harry has seen the general layout drawing of the manor and he has a rough idea about where the owner keeps the strong-box. The owner of the house might be brilliant enough to steal from the government but he is not brilliant enough to escape from Harry Potter. His magic might be counted as cheating but honestly, it is only fair that he can use his personal skills.

Harry walks straight to the study and almost starts laughing out loud. There is a big, old, heavy safe box sitting smack in the middle of the room with number codes and all. It is almost like a healthy, straightforward challenge to thieves: well, let's see if you have done your homework in the Thief Academy. Any other day Harry would have been happy to accept the challenge but he is kind of in a hurry. His ride should arrive in 10 minutes or so, so he has no time to waste.

Again simple _Alohomora_ does its trick and soon Harry has his breast-pocket filled with a file of something top secret. The curiosity towards the envelope vanishes as he admits to himself that he was in for the action, not the information. He can leave the information part to the more than capable hands of Mr. Holmes.

When he turns to leave, a blindingly bright light is directed to his face making him almost jump out of his skin.

"What the hell is going on here?!"

Ah, a night guard, of course. Harry kicks himself mentally and fakes a nice smile to the man with a flashlight and a gun on his hip. Thankfully, on his hip and not in his hand, because even Harry Potter is not quick enough spell-caster to outwit a bullet. He really needs to remember that more often.

"Just a house visit, good sir. Nothing to be alarmed about."

"What the fuck do you think you're-?"

Harry doesn't let him finish but flicks his wand towards the man and casts _Obliviate_ , _Confundo_ and Disillusionment Charm. The obliviation is the tricky one. He really doesn't want to turn the unfortunate man into drooling vegetable after all. The night guard shakes his head while Harry shuts the heavy door of the safety box. The feeling of raw eggs smashed over his head make him shiver. That is all Harry does, before he steps aside and lets the very confused looking night guard take a good look at the room again. The poor man rubs his eyes.

"'the hell is going on in here? First a black-out and now I'm screaming at nothing. What would Mr. Albert say if he knew?"

Night guard stumbles away still rubbing his eyes. Harry smiles after him and hopes that Mr. Albert, whoever that is, will not make the guard's life too difficult when he finds out that his precious papers have been taken during the night. With a pleased huff Harry goes off to destroy the security camera tape for that night and apparates close to the car waiting for him a few miles away. Anthea is leaning against it, furiously tapping her phone, most likely trying to get in contact with Harry. Did he accidentally destroy his phone too? Probably.

He casts silent _Finite Incantatem_ on himself.

"Something wrong?"

Anthea's head snaps up, her posture stiff as if she is ready to launch an attack. Harry can almost see her biting the inside of her cheek, to hold back a curse or a laugh, Harry is not sure which.

"Welcome back, Hans," she mutters finally and relaxes a bit, eyeing Harry with new interest. "What happened?"

Harry shrugs and pats his breast-pocket with a smile.

"All done."

" _Really_?"

"Sorry about that black-out thing by the way. It's just… I work better without distractions, you know. Helps with concentration."

Anthea opens her mouth but holds back whatever she was going to say in favor of nodding towards the car.

"He's waiting for you."

They both enter the car, Anthea as a driver which leaves Harry to dutifully climb to the back seat where the Man is waiting for him. Once again Mr. Holmes is wearing a beautiful, no doubt tailor-made suit and his hands are softly curved around umbrella's handle. If the lost connection between them had somehow worried the man, it really doesn't show.

"Good evening, Hans," he says with almost unnoticeable raise of his chin. "I take it everything went in our favor."

Harry fishes the file from his pocket and hands it over to his boss. The ginger haired man flicks it open, scans the insides with his smoke-grey eyes and hides the whole thing inside his suit jacket.

"I believe congratulations are in order, Hans. Your work on this mission was exemplary considering it was your first. It requires vigorous efforts these days to find individuals with a set of _special_ skills such as yours."

No muscle moves in his body as the man speaks, except for the occasional tilt of his jaw at suitable points of his little speech. The car jolts on the move. The intrigued look he shoots at Harry gives him creeps.

"Pardon my curiosity but I am rather intrigued of what occurred just now by the manor. I take it you turned down the main source of electricity?"

"In a sense, yes, sir. Well, not really. More like the electricity got a bit…confused. Or swallowed. Or overwhelmed. Look, it is a bit hard to explain this in a way people can understand."

"I am more than advanced in laws of physics and the workings of electrical circuits, hence no need to hold yourself back."

Harry opens his mouth to disagree but thinks better of it. Instead he switches tactics.

"I did the job, didn't I? Does it matter how I did it? No one got hurt, there was no ruckus about the whole ordeal and you got your papers back. Everyone goes home happy."

"As your employer, I'm afraid I must insist-"

"No, you can't insist," Harry snaps at him and instantly the air in the car turns heavy as stone. Already as the words leave his mouth Harry is cursing at himself. Certain things are never completely hidden and his sometimes explosive temper bleeds through his mask. He can't have that. Harry rubs his palm against his eyes and leans his elbows against his knees. He lets the air from his lungs escape from his lips as he forces himself to become calm.

"I am… truly sorry, sir," he says softly and courageously meets the Man's sharper-than-bloody-knife stare. "It's to do with the Unit. That's the reason I cannot tell you. The… stuff they had me do, it taught me some things that are extremely hard to explain. I am more than happy to assist you in anything you need but I just cannot reveal some things. And I… I apologize for losing my temper."

It is not hard to play the part of ashamed employee since he does feel a very real hot flash of shame against his skin. For a moment he feels like a child for losing his composure in front of this marvelous man, who always appears so collected even when he is not.

Silence takes over in the car as Anthea drives forward not saying a word if she has heard something.

"Well," the Man says sounding soft and cutting at the same time, "I do find myself enjoying the work of professionals much more than those who are eager to drown the world in their bragging." His grey eyes are shining with various emotions from disappointment to understanding. There might actually be a bit of respect in the Man's stare, if one looks carefully enough.

"However, I would greatly appreciate it if you could keep in contact with us during your next assignment. Would that be acceptable?"

Harry raises his gaze from the Man's shoes, and eyes him from under his dark eyebrows. He doesn't mean to do it, but his face splits into toothy grin.

"Certainly. Thank you, Mr. Holmes."


	2. The Cursed

When Gawain Robards, the current Head of the Auror Office, had contacted him Harry had known he was in trouble. He just couldn't have fathomed the sheer depth of the said trouble.

"Look, Mr. Potter. This is completely our fault: we should have never allowed you to work for Mr. Holmes in the first place. We do apologize. Unfortunately, at the time we were unaware of his fatal position as the proper shadow-ruler of the British government."

Harry grits his teeth together in irritation. He sits in Robards' office, leaning his face into his fist and glowers at the Auror. This conversation really wasn't going into favorable direction.

"So, what? You want me to resign?"

"That would be it, yes."

"No."

Auror Robards gapes at him.

" _Excuse me_?"

"I said _no,"_  Harry repeats and straightens his back. "I refuse to resign. What's the point in that anyway? Mr. Holmes is one of the most important muggle-men in this country, perhaps even in our history which also makes him a suitable target for lots of dangerous people. He needs protection. Can you imagine what would happen if he would be unable to work?"

"That would have terrible consequences, yes I get it, Mr. Potter. However I'm sure he is quite capable of taking care of himself. As far as I know he has most of the muggle's armed forces under his command. Several branches even."

Harry impatiently taps his fingers against his chair and continues to glare.

" _I know_. But how is he supposed to protect himself against something he doesn't know even exists? What if he were to be targeted by a wizard?"

"Why would he be?"

"Don't play this game with me, Robards. You're neither stupid nor ignorant enough to think that some wizards don't abuse their powers in the Muggle World. The man in such high position as Mr. Holmes will eventually become a target."

"And you think you would be the perfect choice as Mr. Holmes' protector? Is that it?"

"Yes, that's exactly it," Harry snarls and bangs his fist against the armrest of his chair. "No, screw that. I already am his protector. Why on earth would you need to replace me now?"

"Because you are the _Harry_ – bloody - _Potter_!"

The silence falls between the two men and Gawain Robards rubs his eyes, looking as if he hasn't slept much in the last month. His robes are all ruffled up around his elbows and waist, suggesting that the older wizard really hasn't had time to even change his clothes. He probably wants to be in this position as little as Harry, maybe even less.

"I acknowledge that you're a powerful wizard, Potter. Everyone knows that but that is one of the problems really. If anyone from the Wizard World was to see you as his protector, even the dimmest witches realize that there is something special going on there. It would still be, no matter how unconsciously for Mr. Holmes, a lot bigger risk than normally. An unnecessary risk."

Harry swallows. He knows Auror Robards is right about this but he refuses to give up so easily.

"I understand that. I know there's a risk. But who else would be fit for the job? Is there anyone else powerful enough for that?"

Robards scratches his eyebrow.

"Ah, well-… I mean-… I'm sure we will find someone fit enough for the duty."

"Really, now? Someone powerful enough, someone whose loyalty you know lies absolutely within what's best for the Wizard World, and someone who knows all about the Muggle World? Does someone like that really ring bells in your head, Robards?"

The Head Auror sighs heavily.

"I know where you're heading with this, Potter and I-…"

"He won't employ them."

They stare at each other over the table. This is something Harry feels confident about: he has seen the spark of trust in the Man's eyes when he looks at him.

"He won't replace me and he certainly won't replace me with someone who is even a fraction less intelligent than I am. So, good luck in trying to find someone who fits in all those categories."

"We could obliviate him, you know," Robards says quietly, his tired eyes are staring at Harry coldly from where they have sunken into his skull. "We could modify his memory so that he believes he has employed whoever we wish for many years already."

Harry's eyes widen just a little bit in shock. He leans further from the man in disgust.

"You've got to be kidding me," he whispers heatedly, sounding horrified about the idea. "Have you-… Have you even met Mr. Holmes? Have you ever seen him work?! If we start playing with his brain he would… we would _break_ him. His mind is his most powerful asset, his most prized possession and it's _delicate_. We can't go around _tampering_ with it!"

He spits out the word "tampering" as if it means something equally as horrible as "torturing" or "shredding apart". Because that is what it would be, really: torture for Harry, and a mind shred apart for Mr. Holmes. The whole idea makes his chest painfully squeeze in on itself.

The auror in front of him buries his face into his palm, stopping to think for a moment and seems to arrive in to same conclusion. He crosses his fingers under his chin and asks carefully:

"Then what would you suggest we do, Mr. Potter?"

"Let me work for him," Harry replies eagerly. "You won't find anyone more fit for the job and you know you can trust me. Also…"

Harry's gaze sharpens and he bares his teeth, looking feral.

"Were I to find out that you have casted even one spell on Mr. Holmes, there will be consequences beyond your imagination, Robards. After all, bending muggle's memory under your power in order to gain more control over their world, no matter with how good intentions, is against basic human rights. It would be quite a scandal if people would find out you've been involved in something like that."

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Potter?" The older wizards blurts out, his eyes widened with surprise and, despite his obvious effort to hide it, nervousness. It is not every day one gets threatened by the Savior of the Wizard World. People seem to often forget how tough Harry can be when he wants to or has to be.

"Do I need to?" Harry asks calmly, his face melting back into indifferent mask he has now used to wearing. He stares at the man challengingly and without blinking. Just to add a bit more dramatics into his performance, a habit he has learned from Mr. Holmes, he lets his magic flow through him.

He can feel the cool depth of his own magical core, the power cracking under his skin, like a layer of electricity between the skin and bone. The green color in his irises deepens into what seems to be an almost unnatural shade.

"No. No! I do not think that will be necessary!" Gawain Robards gasps out and seems to sink deeper into his chair. The hairs at the back of his neck are standing up as a warning. He breathes deeply through his nose and closes his eyes. When he has composed himself again, he looks at Harry as if he is a one big, living and breathing question-mark.

"You have never been this defensive before."

Harry shrugs at him and avoids the man's gaze. The Head Auror seems to find his guts again and leans a bit closer.

"This will be a secret between the two of us and the Unit, ok? No kissing and telling after this."

Harry snorts and presses his lips tightly together so that he won't get thrown out for insulting the Head Auror. He most definitely does not do "kissing and telling". He is far from such amateurism.

"There is damage-control to be done, though," Robards says and strokes his neck absently. "I need you to make an Unbreakable Vow."

Harry flinches, looking grim and worried.

"About what? That is not something I would give lightly."

"I am not a child, Potter! I happen to be a professional as well, no matter what you think," the auror snaps at him, now sounding annoyed. "If we are going to do this, then it's going to be according to official rules. The only thing I need you to swear is that you will try your best at protecting Mr. Holmes, that you will do the same with keeping our world hidden, and that you will not use your position to gain power for yourself. It's an official method and it needs to be done if you want to go through with this. All the other wizards, who are in the same situation as you, have given the same vow. It's a security measure against the greed of power. Sometimes the idea of controlling the important muggles can become too… tempting."

Harry eyes the man warily and finally, after few minutes of staring competition, nods. His word is heavy.

"Fine."

 

* * *

 

 

"Where's Madison?" Harry asks as he throws his grey jacket over the backrest of a fluffy armchair in one of Mr. Holmes' offices. He looks around the room questionably.

"She will not be joining us today…?"

"Hale."

"She will not be joining us today, Hale. Actually, she will most likely be unable to carry out her normal duties for a few days. I trust you to take care of things."

"Certainly, sir," Harry nods at the Man and lets the armchair catch his dead weight.

He lounges at his spot for a while, letting his legs rest straight and his head loll against the expensive but comfortable fabric of the chair. In few minutes he digs his new Blackberry from his pocket and starts checking the news about the upcoming muggle-elections.

Eventually his eyes escape the phone's screen and start sweeping the Man's profile. Silently he wonders if he is ever going to be able to tell the man about the conditions he is under. This is not a freelance-job anymore, not when aurors have stuck their noses into his business. This is a governmental matter now, and far beyond his control. All he can do is hold on tight and try to direct the waves in a way that they won't end up drowning him. Or them.

He wonders what the Man's reaction would be if he was to find out what Harry had sworn in his name today.

"It is never good to let unsaid thing rot on one's tongue," Mr. Holmes says suddenly and very nearly makes Harry jump out of his skin. He feels the creeping feeling of warmth rise up his neck when he realizes that the Man had caught him staring.

"Right. Sorry, sir. It was not my intention to stare."

"Ah, well, it would be lying if I claimed that it bothered me."

They both stop to stare at each other awkwardly, Mr. Holmes looking like he managed to surprise even himself. He coughs.

"Would you take a look at this, Hale. I may need a second opinion about what to do about this."

With couple large steps Harry is by his side and he leans to look at the laptop screen. The website is terrible neon-violet and on the top of the page it states proudly with large curvy letters: _The Liquid Leisure – Whatever your heart desires can now be fitted into one tiny bottle!_ Harry furrows his eyebrows.

"Is that a-… a drug-store?"

"Indeed. They sell… drugs in what appears to be a liquid form."

Harry's frown deepens a degree more.

"Then what is there to think about? Shouldn't we order someone to get rid of that blasted thing."

The look Mr. Holmes shoots at him is not content. Harry stops to think a little wider.

"You mean we don't know what these drugs are? Or do you want me to find out if this shop is part of a bigger chain of illegal drug-stores?"

"I'd like you to find out about both, actually. Some of the drugs they are purchasing are not the kind we have seen before. I am curious about their ingredients. I have also been informed that they have rather peculiar effects, such as very vibrant hallucinations and changes in the vocal cords of the consumer. As far as we are aware, this shop is one of its kind but as you might know, I like to be certain before rushing into… hasty actions."

Harry scratches his jaw. He really needs to shave tomorrow.

"Well, I can take a look, there's no harm in that. Do you have a way for me to contact them or shall I figure it out? I could sneak in and sniff around a little bit."

His employer fishes a business-card from his pocket and hands it over to Harry. It is unusually thick one, but the cover is colored with same tasteless violet.

"One of my men contacted them for you under a name Jack Miles. I trust you to take care of the leg work. I have been led to understand that you are advanced in arts of hiding your true identity."

Harry flips the card around curiously and-… _Ah_. He almost bursts out laughing, barely managing to swallow down a huff of laughter.

"I appreciate the straightforwardness, Mr. Holmes," Harry says, his lips twitching dangerously, "but there's really no need to flatter me in such way. You had me at the ' _good evening_ '."

He holds the single condom-packet back to the other man, whose face starts gradually turn into same shade as his hair. Mr. Holmes looks like he is rather desperately struggling to keep himself together.

"My deepest apologies, Hale. My younger brother is, unfortunately for me, very keen on playing tricks on my expense."

Harry smiles nonchalantly at the Man.

"Sure. No harm done."

"Sherlock is really quite a mischief maker, always has been. I am truly very sorry."

"As I said, no harm done here. We'll be laughing at this in couple of days."

"I doubt that. My brother very rarely gets one over me, but I have to hand it to him; he did a good job this time."

"Come on," Harry coaxes. "It is a little bit funny."

His employer's façade crumbles finally and a narrow smile spreads on his lips.

"Yes, fine, it _was_ quite amusing happenstance," he states and Harry meets his a little more brightly shining eyes with his own. Harry's face is once again split into wide grin and he feels like he might not be able to stop in a while. Suddenly Mr. Holmes sobers and the smile vanishes as quickly as it had appeared. He presses his hand against the pocket of his trousers.

"This means Sherlock has the real business-card. I must advice you to hurry, Hale. I would prefer it if my younger brother would keep out of this business."

Harry is already pulling his jacket on.

"I'm on my way, sir."

When he is about to close the door behind him, he is stopped by the Man's voice.

"And Hale… Do be careful, as cliché as it sounds. It is hard to come across employers such as yourself."

Harry feels an urge to roll his eyes at the Man but refrains from doing so. Instead, he bites the pad of his middle finger and dignifies the man with a lame movie-line.

"Careful is my middle name. Sir."

 

* * *

 

 

The letters were taunting him, Harry thinks as he eyes the wall, his face pale as if he has seen a ghost. In a way he has. With big yellow letters, sprayed on the store-hall's wall it reads:

**_TOO LATE, POTTER_ **

His eyes drop to the peeling edge of the wallpaper, barely covering a big letter "I". Harry feels his mouth dry as he pulls the wallpaper off the wall in a long stripe.

**_I knew you had a thing for gingers._ **

Harry feels a sick twist in his stomach. He apparates away, not caring if someone can see him.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry bursts out from the men's bathroom, banging the door against the wall as he goes. If he is never again going to be welcomed to walk through the Diogenes's Club then that is the price he is willing to pay. Right now his major worry is his employer. He practically runs through the club room, gaining multiple shocked glances as he jerks one of the doors open at the furthest side of it. Mr. Holmes' office is empty. Harry curses under his breath as he taps the Man's number on his phone. He raises the vehicle next to his ear and prays without words.

" _This phone number is temporarily out of use. Please try aga-_ "

He punches the picture of a red phone so hard he fears he is going to break the whole screen. Mr. Holmes never turns his phone off.

Harry presses his Blackberry against his forehead and thinks hard.

Gawain Robards had been right. Harry's mere presence was a threat to Mr. Holmes. But that is a subconscious thought which Harry ignores in favor of rolling the possibilities of finding Mr. Holmes in his head. His makes a sharp u-turn and closes the door behind him. The wand is already in his hand as if summoned by a mere intention.

" _Point me Mr. Holmes._ "

His wand starts spinning on his palm and Harry stops breathing, his heart beating painfully hard rhythm in his chest. The wand rotates and rotates. It doesn't stop.

"Oh, fuck it! Are you serious?!"

He tugs at his own black hair in desperation. The spell doesn't work unless he knows the Man's first name. His _fucking_ first name, he should have guessed. Something always goes wrong. He shoves the wooden club room door open once more and grabs the first man he sees by his shoulder. There is a quiet squeak that escapes the older man's lips when Harry pushes him through the doorway.

"What is Mr. Holmes' first name?"

"My God, young man! Have you no manners?!"

"What is his first name?! Tell me. _RIGHT NOW_!"

"Mycroft, for heaven's sake. His name is Mycroft Holmes. Shouldn't you know that since you work for him? You could have asked him yourself, he did just walk through the club room with two gentlemen."

"With who?"

"How should I know? Did you lose him?"

"None of your business. Thank you for your time."

Harry throws a tight grin at the man and kicks him out. Oh, he will be in trouble later, he knows that. He just can't bring himself to care.

" _Point me_ …", Harry whispers in hoarse voice and swallows down the thickness in his throat, " _Point me Mycroft Holmes_."

 

* * *

 

 

Alicia McConnell is a very normal girl.

And like a very normal 5-years-old girl she was, she was following a fat pigeon which she with her limited knowledge about the comings and goings of the world, thought was the most fascinating creature in whole creation, when a strange man appeared before her from thin air, scaring her pray away.

His hair was black as night and messed throughout by the wind. His round spectacles had slipped down his nose but the man didn't seem to mind.

He twirled around, looking around him and then back at his hand. A brown, wooden stick spun around atop of his palm.

"Who're you lookin' for, mister?"

The man raised his hypnotizing green eyes to her.

"Someone important."

Then he vanished again.

It didn't take more than few seconds before the man appeared again, his handsome face twisted with pain. He raised the wooden stick and pointed it at Alicia.

" _Obliviate_."

 

* * *

 

 

In the one of the dark allies of London, there was a loud crash to be heard along with an angry shout. One of the homeless persons stuck his head out from his makeshift home and narrowed his eyes at large rubbish bin.

First appeared a hand, then another, all the while tightly gripping a wooden stick. After that he could see a messy haired head of a young man. He looked frustrated and disgusted.

"Oh, lord," he moaned. "That wasn't there last time."

After he had swiped something that distantly resembled a molded sandwich off his shoulder and wiped some Chinese sauce from his cheek, the man balanced a branch of wood on his hand.

After he was happy with the given direction, he noticed the interested looking homeless man.

" _Obliviate_."

 

* * *

 

 

Harry doesn't stop apparating before he feels the warmth of his magic warning him. Mr. Holmes was close by, he could feel it. It was not just a gut feeling, like the one you get when you think someone doesn't like you. In his case it is a cold, well, warm, thanks to his magic, certainty. His magic hums excitedly in his veins, like a living creature crawling over his bones and Harry feels like he is going to explode if doesn't move.

When he walks to the backdoor of an old orphan house he can feel the anti-apparation charms press against him. The building itself is grey and hollow-looking and again Harry has a feeling that whoever is behind all this is mocking him in some twisted, cruel way. He clenches his jaw and slips through the doorway.

With quick _Muffliato_ his steps are silent once again and adrenaline joins his magic in his veins. Something within him is cheering and sobbing in relief at the same time and _bloody hell_ , he really needs this, doesn't he?

He moves slowly and carefully from doorway to another. All the doors are open in invitation but there is no one in sight. In the end of one long corridor there is a closed door and Harry halts in his steps.

It's obvious. The warning is basically slammed into his face and screamed in the air for all to see and hear.

His spell reveals that there is nothing magical planted on the door and he moves towards it. It creaks open when he pushes it gently.

Mr. Holmes is sitting in old wooden chair and his hands are tightly pressed together by duct tape behind his back. There is linen going around his head and across his mouth, making him unable to talk. His back is turned towards Harry.

There is no one in the dark, empty dining hall besides them so Harry shows his wand into his sleeve. There is a wand-holder circling his wrist so he can pull the wand out anytime he needs to.

As it is, he thinks it best not to show Mr. Holmes his wand. That would raise unwanted questions and his Unbreakable Vow would pulse painfully as a warning against his ribcage, were he to reveal anything about the Wizard World to Mr. Holmes without an actual need.

He was really starting to hate that vow. It is restricting and Harry has always despised limitations.

Harry checks the room once more before touching his employer's stiff shoulder. The ginger head snaps towards him and Harry is momentarily distracted by his eye's wideness. They soften quickly however, when Harry kneels before the man. His hands burn against the Man's thighs as he squeezes them gently just above knees.

"Are you alright?"

Mr. Holmes nods quickly and Harry smiles in relief. He reaches to unfold the linen from his employer's face when the Man leans towards him. His hands are smudged with dirt.

"Now, isn't that just the sweetest thing?"

Harry whips around on his knees and automatically his hand flies to his sleeve. He is frozen in place when he sees the familiar face of a woman who he had thought he would never have to meet again.

Pansy Parkinson is smiling. Her face isn't as Harry remembers but then again, he has also changed a lot since the Second Wizard War. The woman's eyes are huge and black and heavily circled with black eye shadow, black hair perfectly in straight line, falling just above her thin shoulders. Everything about the woman has turned black, except her milky-white skin and red, thin lips.

"Hello, Potter."

Harry feels Mr. Holmes' thigh-muscles stiffen against his shoulder since he had by instinct leaned against the Man when a threat presented itself. He doesn't dare to face the Man so he stares at the woman instead. He wonders what Mr. Holmes thinks is going on. Clearly the fact that the woman knew his name revealed that he was in trouble and the Man did not approve.

"Pansy," Harry states out slowly and notices the two men behind her. His eyebrows furrow. Both of them seem dazed, staring at Pansy as if she is the most captivating woman in existence. _Liquid Leisure_ indeed.

"You do know that's against our laws."

The woman giggles in her fist. She looks down at him and Harry can see the anger turning into rage behind her black eyes.

"It wouldn't be if we had won the war."

There's a sharp pain in Harry's ribcage and he has to grasp Mr. Holmes' shin so that he doesn't wobble forward on his face. This is a subject too close to the Wizard World it seems. It causes unwanted questions to rise in his employers mind. Harry really needs to lead this conversation elsewhere.

"Why would you sink as low as to sell this… stuff? I thought it would be far below you."

"Oh, you haven't heard have you?" She looks at Harry in honest puzzlement and it sets Harry on edge. "Right now I am Undesirable number 56. I do have to earn my living somehow."

"So you are a fugitive."

"I am a business woman," she smiles with her teeth and gives the giggle again which Harry had often heard her direct at Malfoy back in Hogwarts, "and a survivor. And you, _Harry,"_  she drawls his name on her tongue like an exotic spice, "are about to become my customer."

"I honestly don't think so."

"Well, I honestly do," Pansy says and reaches within her shirt. Instantly Harry's hand disappears into his sleeve but Pansy clicks her tongue at him.

"That's a big no-no, Potter. You know you really don't want to do that with the ginger-boy here."

Harry feels sweat rise to his forehead and silently curses. Of course Pansy knows about his vow. Brilliant. Just brilliant, this makes things so much more difficult. However, Pansy cannot kill Harry with his Unbreakable Vow if she threatens his life. That would give Harry a chance to use his magic against her and Pansy really cannot outwit Harry in a battle. She knows this. And that makes her dangerous as much as restricted.

Harry's grasp on his employer's leg gets firmer and he feels the Man tighten his muscles in response. His palm must be burning up, thanks to his magic.

When Pansy retreats her hand from inside of her shirt, there is a tiny bottle of pink liquid carefully balanced between her nails. Harry groans and Pansy's smile widens into a full-blown grin. The men behind her look like they are about to start drooling all over the floor.

" _Amortentia,"_  she announces and shakes the bottle for good measure. "A love potion, if you will, since you have never been good at potions. This stuff really puts the fear of women into hearts of men, don't you think?"

When words "love potion" leave her mouth, Harry has to bite his inner cheek to hold down a painful yell. Too many questions are rising in his employer's head and it _fucking hurts_. He has never hated the Man because he thinks so much but there is a first time for everything. Harry gasps out a pained breath. Finally, he turns to look at Mr. Holmes, his sweaty cheek now dragging against the Man's knee. Distantly Harry wonders when had he leaned his head against it. The wizard can feel sweat droplets slide down his forehead.

Mr. Holmes' eyes are wide and alert but his face carefully controlled. There are about thousand questions forming in his head but Harry can also see the worry painted all over his features. Harry must look terrible but he cannot really help it, since he feels like he is dangerously close to having a heart-attack. He mouths the words " _I'm so sorry_ " to the Man and squeezes his eyes closed, struggling with the pain that flames deep within his ribcage. He has a very bad feeling about what is going to happen next.

What he cannot see, is the worried panic rising in the Man's grey eyes. In his painful state he doesn't even notice how the other jerks in his direction as if trying to follow him when Harry drags himself on his wobbling feet.

"So, what? Your master plan is to make your own army in which each and every one of your soldiers is lusting after you? Sounds quite laborious."

"It is actually endearing, I have to be honest with you," Pansy laughs and fishes out another bottle. This time it is filled with golden liquid which Harry could recognize anywhere since he had once consumed the similar kind himself: _Felix felicis_.

"I have a real treat for you tonight, David darling," the woman whispers and winds her arms around the taller man's shoulders behind her. The man looks like he is about to come in his pants when Pansy's red lips flutter against his ear.

"I need you to swallow this, love," she urges and pushes the golden bottle in man's palm, "and make him drink this."

Pansy points in Harry's direction when she pushes the love potion in muggle's other hand. The man seems hesistant and eyes Harry carefully. Pansy goes on.

"That, or he will kill me, David. You don't want me dead, do you?"

David feverishly shakes his head and chucks down the liquid luck without further hesitation. Pansy gleefully chuckles next to his ear.

Harry feels a bile rise into his throat. The idea of falling in love with Pansy of all people makes him want to throw up. Also, there is no way of knowing what will happen to Mr. Holmes after that. Or what will Pansy make him do to Mr. Holmes. The mere idea sends chills down his backbone.

After few seconds, the golden bottle falls on the floor and shatters. David's face goes blissfully blank and he smiles into nothingness, staggering on his feet when Pansy pushes him forwards. Then his face goes from pale as a sheet to purple, as the love- and luck potions flow through his blood circulation. Those two are clearly not meant to mix. The poor man looks sick and pained but obediently he staggers towards Harry, murderous intent clear on his face.

Harry is going to fall in love with Pansy or he is going to die. Neither of them are exactly favorable options.

Harry doesn't tremble anymore, not even when he should or when he is scared. The Wizarding War had rid him of such habits. But right now, he can feel the urge to shake in his knees. He is much akin to a cornered animal knowing it is going to be slain. Harry has no escape and it feels like a worst kind of nightmare. The love potion is not fatal so if he strikes with his magic, he will most likely die due the Unbreakable Vow he has made to the Head Auror in order to protect their world. If he swallows the love potion, he will become Pansy's slave for God knows what purposes. If he attacks David physically it is going to fail because the other man just swallowed _Felix felicis_ , and it will end up in other man's victory, no matter what Harry tries.

He could run. He could sprint off and live, but that means leaving Mr. Holmes behind and that certainly is not an option. Sometimes he curses his own heroism. Harry is screwed, for the lack of a better word.

He doesn't look at the muggle approaching him slowly, but turns to face Mr. Holmes instead. He tries to memorize the Man's face since he would really much rather look at him than at David. Harry's voice is barely a whisper. He doesn't even chastise himself for that, because the last time he was driven into corner like this was… It was when he had to let Voldemort kill him.

"I know you don't understand," he whispers softly, "but I'm going to die. In a way. I know you don't understand any of this, but there is no other way. There are no other alternatives. I'm done for it."

"Poor, Potter," Pansy taunts and claps her hands together like an excited child. "You see Mr. muggle, he is right. He can't escape because no matter what he does, the outcome will be the same. Harry Potter will die tonight. Fucking finally."

Holmes' eyes quickly scan Pansy's face and then Harry's, searching for something: a bluff, a lie, an uncertainty, anything, finding none. Harry thinks he has never seen the Man look so confused and so overwhelmed with worry.

"He is _cursed_!" Pansy shrieks and laughs and it sounds like nails scraping against blackboard in Harry's ears. "You've always _been_ cursed, haven't you Potter? Always wriggling your way out of trouble, but not this time! Draco would be so proud of me!"

She suddenly stops as if she has hit a wall and looks panicked. It is as if she has chocked on her own words and her face contracts in barely hidden heartbreak. It looks ugly on her face. Oh, Harry thinks absently, she's still in love with Malfoy, isn't she? Exactly how heartless the world can be towards the pair of them?

David has finally reached him and Harry raises his green eyes to muggle's face. David's hand, slick with sweat, curls over his jaw and squeezes. He can feel the blunt nails digging into his jaw, sliding a little because of sweat and dirt and old Chinese sauce. Immediately he can feel the normal flow of blood and oxygen cut off, making the corners of his vision hazy.

Mr. Holmes tries to say something but his voice is muffled by thick linen. It is a shame; Harry would have loved to hear what the Man would have wanted to say at Harry's final moments. His own fingers spam uselessly at his sides. He cannot do a thing. He will die. It's alright, really. It's not like it's the first time for him which makes this whole thing a bit funny.

Then his eyes lock with David's and understanding floods through him. The muggle's eyes are filled with so much sadness and pain and pure suffering that it almost makes Harry's own water. The knife is on his hand on the next second, and he pushes it through David's abdomen. The man's head flops backwards, his eyes widened and mouth open in soundless scream of pain. There is a warm, watery feeling on Harry's hands and he fights the urge to puke.

Oh, he is back in the game, alright. But this game isn't fun at all.

Pansy is frozen in her place, looking like a living statue. Her black eyes are wide as saucers.

"Why would you do that? How could you?!"

With quiet, dark stare Harry steps over David's now collapsed body, and does not pause until he is standing right before the trembling Pansy Parkinson. He quirks a humorless smile at her.

"David was _lucky_ that I killed him, 'lucky' being the magic word," he says and sends a dirty wink to her, even though he feels anything but amused, "because even dying is better than working as your slave for eternity. I wonder what you have forced him to do, to make him arrive into such decision."

"Kill him!" Pansy shrieks, now terrified and desperate, and grasps the other muggle behind her by sleeve and drags him between her and Harry. "Kill him, I said, or he will kill me! Protect me!"

Smaller muggle's face twists and he throws a punch towards Harry, who blocks quickly and shows his arm away. Next Harry takes a firm hold of the man's hair and jerks his head down. The man's face collides with his knobby knee with a satisfying crunch. The man crumbles at Harry's feet, leaving a warm, wet, dark red spot on Harry's trousers. He didn't kill the man; he had just broken his nose and left him unconscious. A small victory.

Pansy's hand goes to her sleeve and both of them freeze on their places. They stare at each other, neither of them moving. Harry exhales slowly.

"Think you can win against me in a duel, Parkinson?"

Pansy might not be a genius but she is not stupid either. She flees as if there were a flock of wasps trailing after her. Heavy silence follows as Pansy slams the door closed after her, leaving Harry alone with Mr. Holmes.

Harry gasps heavily, rushing to muggle man's side where he has collapsed and presses his fingers desperately against David's throat.

"Fuck!" He hisses menacingly and angrily throws the knife from his hand to the wall. There is no pulse to be found on David's neck.

He turns around to face Mr. Holmes slowly, not sure what to expect. This whole things has become an unexplainable scene.

Mr. Holmes' face is unreadable as Harry rises on his feet and walks around him. He slices the duct tape off and makes a grim face at the red lines circling the Man's wrists. He then steps in front of his employer again and reaches to pull the linen off his mouth. Harry cannot look in the grey eyes that are assessing him with dangerous glint. The linen falls off as Harry falls on his knees before the man once more. His hands fist around the damp fabric.

He will be sacked, Harry thinks and feels his chest squeeze uncomfortably tight. He has screwed things up and now he has to pay the price.

He will be demanded an explanation he cannot give and it will make Mr. Holmes mad.

He will be told to stay away from the man and never see him again.

He will never see him again.

There is a blue handkerchief dapping gently against his cheek and Harry blinks behind his smudged glasses. His gaze snaps up to the Man. The silky fabric slides gently over his skin.

"You have made quite a mess, Harry," Mr. Holmes says, sounding firm.

His handkerchief covered slim fingers press against Harry's lower lip, and Harry feels his face heat up. He had no idea grey eyes could burn so fiercely.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Already forgiven. More importantly, are you alright? You seemed rather pained at one point."

"I was poisoned, sir," Harry lies quickly since he really cannot say his Unbreakable Vow caused him to almost have a heart-attack. Mr. Holmes stiffens. His gaze scans Harry's face worriedly.

"I have taken antidote, however. I just had to act as if I hadn't."

"You were bluffing," his employer clarifies and the corner of his mouth twists a little. He looks impressed at Harry's acting skills. "How clever. You had me worried for a second though."

"My apologies," Harry mumbles and by instinct his hands raise and curl behind his employer's knees. He squeezes them in silent comfort as the dirt is gently cleaned from the soft skin under his eye.

"You could have called for help," Mr. Holmes whispers.

"I didn't need to."

"Bit over-confident, are you?"

It's strangely intimate, vulnerable position for both of them. They study each other in silence, both of them stilling, unable and unwilling to break the soft contact.

Harry's pupils blow up as he slowly rubs his shaking fingertips against the Man's shin. He can feel the shiver against his cheek from the other's hand, as the handkerchief falls to the tips of the Man's fingers and he cradles Harry's face gently into his palm. Harry closes his eyes and presses his soft lips against Mr. Holmes' damaged wrist.

Then ear splitting scream makes them jerk away from each other. Harry stares at his blinking employer, who slowly rises from the chair.

"Ah, that would be MI6. Deducing by the sound, they have caught Miss Parkinson."

Harry's mouth falls open a little.

"Shall we?" Mr. Holmes suggests and nods towards the door. Harry can only follow stupidly after him.

 

* * *

 

True to his words, there are over twenty men dressed in thick black clothes with helmets over their faces and guns in their hands standing outside the building.

Two of them are holding the screaming and vigorously wriggling Pansy Parkinson between them, trying to drag her towards a van. She seems to be unable to reach for her wand.

"How..." Harry starts, closes his mouth and starts again. "How did they know what was going on? How did they know where we were?"

Mr. Holmes smiles thinly, looking like he really doesn't know what to do with his hands when he doesn't have an umbrella to hold. He ends up stuffing them into his pant pockets.

"I have a tracker installed behind one of my teeth. If I do not give them a signal every hour or so, they start wondering if something is wrong and track my current location. In a situation as this they will come and… retrieve me. They also take care of the... cleaning after us, so you do not need to bother yourself with that."

Harry feels a little stupid. He should have guessed the Man had something like that up his sleeve. Thankfully Pansy hadn't used any magic while holding Mr. Holmes as a prisoner which means the tracker had worked.

"That is… awfully clever. And useful."

"You flatter me," the Man chuckles but sobers quickly when Pansy makes a note of the two of them.

" _Potter_!" She screams at the top of her lungs, making Harry flinch. "You think you can just go and walk away, don't you?! You think your happiness is going to last?! No need to lie, I saw your face, you're happy and it's _disgusting_!"

She is momentarily silenced by one of the men from MI6 but she viciously bites the man's hand so that he is forced to let go with a painful yelp.

"You don't _deserve_ to be happy, you hear me?! In the end everyone you care about will _die_! Because they always _do_ , don't they, _Harry_?!"

She is finally shoved into the van and her screams get muffled by metal doors banged shut between them. Men from MI6 turn their head curiously towards the two of them but start packing away soon after. None of them approaches Harry or Mr. Holmes.

He can hear the Man behind him sift. Harry's own shoulders slump, suddenly feeling the heaviness of Pansy's words settle over him.

He can almost feel it. Mr. Holmes' hand hovers above his shoulder and Harry wonders if it's to drag him into a hug or just to rest against his shoulder. He is grateful that nothing of the sort happens.

Harry really doesn't want to admit it, because it makes him feel weak and silly, but Pansy's words had struck deep. For his employer to acknowledge it would be humiliating.

"She is merely trying to aggravate yo-"

"I know."

God, he feels tired and not just physically, either. He jolts out of his trance when Mr. Holmes speaks again.

"In the end, where on earth did you crawl up from, Hale? I have been noticing your dreadfully abhorrent smell for a while now."

Harry closes his eyes for a second and really cannot help the amused smirk that rises to his lips no matter how hard he tries to force it away. He looks down on himself and has to agree: it looks and smells like he has crawled to hell and back.

"Always there to point out the most important matter, are you not, Mr. Holmes?"

The Man laughs out quietly when Harry eyes the almost spotless state of his three piece suit with good flavored humor.

"Oh, yes. Someone has to. You are quite capable of making a mess but cleaning...Well, you could use a bit more practice."

"Lucky me, having such a skilled employer."

"Now you are just exploiting me."

"Well, I kind of have no choice. I'm creative; you can't expect me to be neat too."

"I expect you to be many things, but I do not think smelly is included on the list."

"Too bad I haven't seen such list," Harry hums, already feeling a bit better and tries to wipe some dirt off, only managing to spread it wider.

"Is that Chow Mein sauce on your face?" Mr. Holmes' voice sounds incredulous. "Did you get peckish on your way to save me?"

"What?" Harry wipes his face with alarming speed while looking bewildered. " _What_?! Of course not! I got dropped into a rubbish bin."

Mr. Holmes raises his elegant eyebrow which leaves Harry coughing embarrassedly into his fist.

"It was an unfortunate accident."

"I must hope so. Is that a regular happenstance?"

Harry furrows his dark eyebrows at the Man.

"Me having accidents or getting dropped into a rubbish bin?"

Mr. Holmes raises his hand to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"I'm afraid I am really starting to worry about us."


	3. The Successor

The raindrops are heavy. They bounce against Mr. Holmes' black umbrella and slide over it, finally dropping to ground with a wet sound. The grass glistens softly and air is clear for once if a bit misty.

Harry's shoes and socks have gotten throughout wet a long time ago but he honestly doesn't mind. In a way, it feels right to suffer like this. Even though he knows it is a selfish thing to do, and his grief is nowhere near comparable with the Man's, it feels right to share his own mental pain with physical suffering. The other one at least is easier to handle and it is just distracting enough. Blissful discomfort.

"What happened to her?"

Mr. Holmes is quiet for a long time. The raindrops heavily fall upon them as the rain continues to hum.

The Man looks collected but Harry knows his insides are probably in complete turmoil. The faint quiver in his fingers which are curved over an umbrella handle as always tell many things without words.

"Cancer. She had been fighting it for years."

The umbrella is lowered so that Harry can barely see his chin.

"Doctors didn't think she would last this long. But she is a fighter, always has been," Mr. Holmes coughs into his fist softly. "Marvelous woman, she was. Marvelous woman."

Mr. Holmes turns on his heels and starts slowly walking towards Bentley. It is most likely his last march in the woman's presence. He would probably smoke if it wasn't so disrespectful towards the way she left.

Harry's lips try to wobble just a bit, but enough so that he has to press them tightly together in order to prevent such unmanly action. His nails dig deep into his palms as he lowers himself so that he can stare straight at the gravestone.

"I'll keep his smug ass safe, you hear me?" Harry forces the whisper out. He raises a tightly clenched fist to his lips and closes his eyes for a moment. He takes a sudden breath.

"I promise." He licks his dry lips and a quiet chuckle escapes him. "And I don't give promises lightly. You can count on me. I will not do that mistake again."

Harry rises to his numb feet and feels small rivers of water run down his face, his hair, his back, his hands. If he is crying, he cannot tell.

He had not been employed to become a secondary-assistant. He had been trained to become a successor.

 

* * *

 

 

The clean-up job after the incident of Liquid Leisure takes longer than he had anticipated. He needs to figure out which bottle contains what in the storage room. And it is a big storage room, Parkinson had been busy.

Even though the job is mind-numbingly boring, Harry thinks it is good for him and Mr. Holmes. He has a feeling his employer needs some alone-time to get over the fact that someone he had daily trusted his life with had died. Harry does not contact him in few days but makes sure someone else is there to force Mr. Holmes stop working in every few days. It is probably easier for Mr. Holmes too, to have someone around who doesn't know him too well. They take his working frenzy as what it seems to be: a workaholic at his best.

Harry himself finds the labeling of potions to be a soothing task. It is sometimes nice not to be aware of every building, car and person around him. He doesn't even need to count minutes. Also, if few bottles of Polyjuice Potion or Veritaserum get lost into his pocket, no one is there to criticize him. Not for a while, anyway. He can only hear the footsteps when they are already straight behind him.

"Are you one of his creatures?"

Harry twirls around on his knees and finds himself staring at someone else's knees. Or somewhere around someone's knees, since they are covered with a dark grey coat.

Harry raises his eyes and allows himself to relax slowly when he finds the man to be no threat. Mr. Holmes's younger brother certainly tries his best at looking intimidating though. Harry can recognize his face from one of Mycroft's files. Actually, his boss has a staggering number of files concerning his brother.

"I don't know," Harry says and turns again, piling the bottles into neat rows. "Who are we talking about?"

"Oh, do not pretend you don't know my brother."

"I never said I didn't know him," Harry answers calmly and straightens himself. He swipes some dirt off his trousers. "How can I help you?"

"You can't. My meddling brother would not allow it."

" _Meddling_?" Harry chuckles. "I guess that's one way to describe Mr. Holmes."

The man with black, curly hair makes a sound that is somewhere on the borderline of annoyed and disgusted.

" _Mr. Holmes_?! Is that what you call him? _Mr. Holmes_?"

Harry blinks at the dark haired man.

"Well, what else am I supposed to call him? That's his name after all."

"How about a smug bastard? A meddling moron? I would also recommend calling him fat, not just because it puts him on the edge, but because he is always cheating on his diet. I would find it hilarious if his lack of self-control wouldn't be so pathetic."

Harry raises an eyebrow at the comment, not feeling like putting up with this. He smiles thinly.

"Will that be all, Mr. Holmes the younger?"

"Ugh, good God, don't you dare to call me that."

"Would you prefer 'smart-mouth' then, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock Holmes shifts a bit, opens his mouth as if to say something but doesn't. He merely sweeps Harry's appearance with his eyes and then settles on drilling his blue, icy gaze into Harry's skull.

"You're cheekier than the last one."

"Surprise," Harry cheers lamely and lifts the box of potion on his arms. "Will that be all?"

"I really don't understand why my brother would hire someone like you. You are not from a rich family and your taste in clothing is practically nonexistent which he, of course, despises in people. But maybe it is because you are highly educated, single and your past relationships have been a disaster, so that there on itself is one thing less to worry about. You don't own much material matter and only few of your actual belongings mean anything to you, your glasses a good example. You have been bullied as a child but you have learned to defend yourself, with quite a success I must admit. You are more than advanced in usage of small weapons but not guns… Why not guns? How interesting, oh! You have done silent jobs in which you can't make much noises, so you must use knives. An assassin, most likely. I wouldn't put it past my brother to hire one. He could also go for a sushi chef but that is a bit unlikely, considering that he had actually lost a pound. Am I right?"

They stare at each other, Harry a bit bewildered at the sudden machine-gun speeded speech and Sherlock looking challenging.

Harry can't help it. He snorts under his breath and then lets out a quiet chuckle, followed by a full-blown laughter.

"You are very entertaining, Mr. smart-mouth," he says still giggling a bit and starts to wander away with the heavy box in his arms, "but I really must go now. Mr. Holmes is expecting me in 17 minutes."

"Did I get it right?" Sherlock yells after him. "I did, didn't I?"

Harry throws him a cheeky grin over his shoulder.

"Not really. But I'll see you around, Mr. smart-mouth the younger! Till the next time."

 

* * *

 

 

Mr. Holmes gets bored with his temporary assistant within a week and Harry comes back to his side. Both of them are feeling a bit better and gotten over the fact that Anthea is dead and things need to go forward. For Harry it felt like his big sister had died. He wonders how Mr. Holmes had felt about her.

When Harry tells him about his meeting with Sherlock Holmes, he gains amused look from his employer.

"Well, that went better than I expected."

 

* * *

 

 

When Harry stumbles into one of Mr. Holmes' homes in the middle of London, it is well past five in the morning. Distinctively he remembers sleeping a few hours two days ago, which means he has been running with two hours of sleep for the last 58 hours. He is so tired he can barely function. Coffee and caffeine pills do not let him just drop-dead, but it doesn't make him any more coherent.

He almost trips on the corner of the carpet in Mr. Holmes' study. His performance earns a pair of furrowed eyebrows, aimed at his direction.

"Are you alright, Harry?"

He nods slowly and blinks repeatedly. At this rate he is going to die before his time.

"I think you should call it a day. You are hardly any use for me if you are half asleep."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," Harry says quietly, slurring a bit with his words. He fishes an envelope from his pocket and hands it over to his boss, who looks at him demanding an explanation.

"It's the security codes of the White House, as you requested. Also the patterns of their changes for the next week have been written down for you."

Mr. Holmes' grey eyes drop to the envelope, suddenly eyeing it with more interest.

"Already? I expected it to take couple more days."

"You said it was urgent," Harry mutters and rubs his neck slowly, shutting his eyes for a moment. He almost falls asleep on his feet and wobbles a bit forward.

"Blimey," he breathes out, shaking his head desperately. "I'm knackered. May I be dismissed?"

"Of course, Harry. Thank you, this is… very good. We are now well ahead of them. It seems that your definition of 'urgent' is something different altogether. I am pleased."

Harry can barely hear him. His vision is starting to blurry when he notices a couch at the corner of the room. To him, it looks like heaven. Harry waves somewhere at it's direction.

"May I…?"

"By all means. I do not mind."

Gratefully Harry flops down and his brain shuts down immediately, leaving him to the blessed darkness.

 

* * *

  

It is an important evening. Harry really hates important evenings because that means he has to dress like a fancy butler and trail after Mr. Holmes for the whole night (that he doesn't really mind). However, the big crowd of people leaves a lot of pig-holes for snipers and assassins. Everyone around them has to be considered an enemy and when there are 200 people giggling and laughing and drinking, flogging together around them like a pack of sheep, things get difficult.

Harry has his fingers very gently resting on Mr. Holmes' elbow, just making sure that he doesn't lose him. There's a recipe for a complete disaster, right there.

To take a breath from the pushing and pulling of the crowd, they escape to the men's restroom. Harry stays by the sink, fixes his tie and feels annoyed staring at his hair which looks like it hasn't been brushed for the last two months.

"Are we feeling alright, Harry?" Mr. Holmes asks and Harry meets his grey gaze through the mirror.

"Of course, sir. My hair merely has a habit of defying gravity. It's irritating."

"I have made notice," the Man nods as he washes his hands. He daps them almost dry on the towels and reaches for Harry's head.

Their eyes meet but Harry doesn't flinch away from the Man or look away. The Man raises an eyebrow as a question. Harry shrugs his shoulders at his employer.

"By all means. If you can do something about it, you have my permission to fix it every morning from now until forever."

"Do you truly believe I would need your permission?" Mr. Holmes asks, voice clear with humorous intent but there is something is his eyes.

Harry doesn't answer. The twinkle in his own eyes must talk pretty loudly without words. Mr. Holmes knows that Harry knows that the British Government really doesn't need permission to do anything in his own country. This thought makes Harry's toes curl in his shoes.

Mr. Holmes sinks his fingers into Harry's hair and swipes them on the side. He tries to push them downwards so that the tips would not try to reach into every compass point.

"It's useless," Harry sighs heavily. "It has never settled down. However I try to fix it or whatever weird product I put into my hair it remains like that. You might as well give up."

Mr. Holmes hums in agreement and ruffles Harry's hair softly so that it basically looks like his head has exploded. Or that he had just woken up. Or that he has just had a pretty great shag.

Harry does feel weirdly exposed right now.

 

* * *

 

 

The restraint Mr. Holmes shows never ceases to amaze Harry. It has been almost four months since the Liquid Leisure-incident and the ginger haired man hasn't shown even slightest interest in pushing Harry to explain his actions. There has been no talk about Pansy Parkinson, who was soon after her arrest moved elsewhere by the National Special Defense Unit. Nothing about how Harry got "poisoned" or how he found Mr. Holmes in the first place.

This arrangement fits Harry just fine. It is most likely because he had, upon their first meeting, clearly told Mr. Holmes that he simply cannot talk to him about things concerning the Unit. And because of the Vow he has taken, he is no longer physically capable of it. Or maybe he hasn't asked because Mr. Holmes enjoys mysteries that he cannot crack. Harry straight-out telling him could be considered cheating.

And indeed, it is not like they had had any time to dwell on the matter. Mr. Holmes had recently been almost bombarded with tasks that required his immediate presence which certainly did not make Harry's life any easier either.

Hence the situation they are in right now.

 _So this is what embodiment of the Devil would look like_ , Harry thinks bitterly. It is not exactly fair of him to think in such way because the situation is not really the girl's fault but he doesn't like her, so there. He can think what he likes as long as it doesn't show on his face.

The girl is pretty at least. She has a round, sweet face and blond, wavy hair. Her lips are plum and red and eyes huge and clear like deer's. She's slim but curvy in the right places, and she has this certain air of wickedness around her because when she narrows her eyes they transform from deer's to the like of cat's.

"Hugh," the Man says, his hand laying gently on the woman's shoulder. "This is Marie. Marie, Hugh."

"Pleasure to meet you," Harry mutters and bows to the new secretary, acknowledging his boss with a nod. He does not meet the blond woman's eyes upon the greeting but focuses on the constantly buzzing Blackberry on his hand instead, raising his glasses higher on his nose.

"Apologies, Marie. Hugh has been extremely busy lately, absolutely irreplaceable. However, I do believe we need a bit help with everyday matters."

Marie's eyes sharpen at the word "irreplaceable". From the corner of his eyes Harry can see her posture stiffen. Greediness flashes in her brown eyes, burning hot. She looks like she is ready for a fight right here, right now.

"I'm sure I can be of use," Marie says, eyes turning towards Mr. Holmes and lips turning into confident smile. "I'm the best secretary in London. 180 words per minute, sir."

"Impressive," their employer states absent-mindedly, his thoughts clearly a million miles away, eyes cast upon Harry. "You may start immediately by updating my schedule. Hugh, with me, if you please."

When the British Government turns his back on them, Harry accidentally meets Marie's fierce gaze.

She furrows her eyebrows, disturbing their perfect symmetry. Her brown eyes suddenly widen a fraction, gaze flickering from Harry to their employer and back to Harry.

Then the worst thing happens. Marie's red lips turn into all-knowing smile and her eyes narrow like cat's.

 _Fuck_. Harry thinks. _Bugger_.

 

* * *

  

Next minutes are quiet in the Man's office. Harry cannot stop his eyes from sliding over his employer's frame.

He cannot be selfish, Harry reminds himself and rubs the palms of his hands against his eyes. The idea of Mr. Holmes recruiting the deer-eyed woman is unsettling and makes air leave Harry's lungs as if someone has punched him. He feels incompetent. Why this turn of events bothers him so much, Harry doesn't really know. But the point is, he cannot be selfish about this, it is not his decision to make. And they really do need a secretary. Harry has to admit that he has been drowning in his work for quite some time now.

Actually, Mr. Holmes hiring someone else has nothing to do with him. Absolutely nothing.

The truth shocks him to his core.

Harry is completely unprepared for the feeling that washes over him. This feeling of pure need to possess each and every second of his employers life. He wants to be the one who gently directs Mr. Holmes by elbow back to Bentley when he is at verge of collapsing from silent exhaustion. He wants to be the one who makes sure that the Man makes it to his bed and doesn't just drop dead on the living-room floor. He wants to be the one who's opinion Mr. Holmes asks and who he first calls when he needs something. He wants his hand back on his face, cradling it, as if Harry is something precious.

Harry stares at the golden wooden floor with wide eyes and pale face. This is something new.

He attempts to push the feeling deep down into himself and clear his head. Harry needs this to stop. This is completely inappropriate and unwanted. Mr. Holmes doesn't need an assistant who wants his employer. Harry doesn't want to become something Mr. Holmes doesn't need. Therefore, he needs this feeling to stop existing.

"Come here, Harry."

Mr. Holmes' voice violently jerks Harry out of his thoughts. He climbs on his feet from the comfort of his armchair and approaches his employer, who has his back on him and is arranging papers on his desk. His desk was always empty in Anthea's time, Harry thinks gloomily. It is like the papers are mocking him about the poor job he has made.

"What do you think of Marie?"

Harry presses his palms together behind his back and straightens his posture.

"She seems competent."

Mr. Holmes hums in agreement.

"I agree. I certainly have no complains about her intelligence nor her looks."

Harry grits his teeth together but forces a nod to the ginger haired man who has now turned to face him. The Man's face has a shadow of worry lingering on his features when he searches to meet Harry's green eyes behind his glasses.

"I am positive she will be fit for the job. She had a very impressive list of referees and she seemed to take this chance with seriousness. I was rather pleased with her."

Harry can feel a vein pulse on his forehead. God, would Mr. Holmes stop praising her already.

"I do not question your decisions, sir."

"She is very easy on the eyes and has good manners as well, I presume. I'm sure she will be very usefu-…"

" _I will be useful to you_."

The words themselves are unremarkable. They could be even be read as arrogant were it not for Harry's voice. It comes out as fast, sharp and laced with desperation that Harry himself seems not have been aware of before the words have already left his lips. Immediately Harry stiffens, his eyes wide and staring somewhere on Mycroft's shoulder because Harry cannot make himself to meet his employers grey eyes. Sudden shame of his childish reaction causes his neck to flare red making him even more mortified.

Good God. 'I will be useful to you', what the hell is he saying. His desperation to please Mr. Holmes must seem pathetic. It even came out sounding jealous. How unprofessional of him.

"I will…" Harry struggles to find his suddenly raspy voice. "I shall try my best to continue to be of use to you as well. Sir."

Finally he raises his eyes, first flickering upwards quickly, then with more purpose.

Harry has never seen a surprised expression on his employer's face. Mycroft's lips are tightly pressed together. Someone had probably sometime taught him not to drop his jaw on the floor at time of surprise. However, his eyes are wider than Harry has ever seen before.

The Man quickly straightens his posture and blinks a couple of times.

"Of course… I would not expect anything less from you, Harry."

An awkward silence ensues. Harry clears his throat and shuffles on his feet.

"Right. Of course. May I be dismissed for the day, sir?"

"I… Yes."

"Alright. I shall pick you up at 6 am. tomorrow morning as scheduled. Good evening, sir."

The interested look in the grey eyes hunt Harry out of the room and linger on his mind even as he steps out of the building.

He will be useful to Mr. Holmes. He must be useful because he feels content to belong to him.

What Harry cannot see is Mycroft Holmes raising a hand on his forehead as he allows a very faint blush rise to his cheeks, while his lips turn into pleased smile.

 

* * *

 

Harry gives a uninterested look to the ex-army soldier who climbs into the car right next to him. His green eyes flicker behind his glasses in the light of a passing car before he concentrates on the Blackberry once more.

The doctor is looking a bit stressed under the circumstances and no wonder, Mr. Holmes had most likely done something to leave an impression on him. His employer works like that, he leaves the impression cooking on his prey's mind until the person is nice and tender to be handled.

John Watson finally turns to look at his companion, stopping for a bit to take in the smart suit, round glasses and raven black hair. On the inside, Harry is smirking. He knows he looks like business.

"Hello."

Harry takes a pity on the man and gives him a soft smile.

"Hi."

"What's your name, then?"

_He is taking this rather well. - H_

Harry quickly presses "Send" and his message is off. He hums distractedly at the doctor's question.

"Harris."

"Is that you real name?"

Harry raises his gaze from the phone to look at Dr. Watson on his left side. He smiles a bit wider at the man. He is actually quite amusing.

"No. Not really."

John Watson nods at him and turns to look out of the window, clearing his throat. Harry on the other hand reads the message that had just popped on his front screen.

_Interesting. How long? - MH_

The doctor with bluish eyes has turned to face Harry again.

"I'm John."

_Seven. - H_

"Yeah," Harry drawls and then nods at the doctor with a  fleeting smile as if he had forgotten that he should actually address him. "I know."

"Any point in asking where I'm going?"

There is no fear in the man's voice and Harry must admit that he is a little bit impressed. Dr. Watson is truly taking this much better than most people. Mostly, his question is laced with curiosity and a little bit of worry. Apologetically Harry smiles at him once more, but only briefly.

"None at all," Harry starts tapping on his phone again and raises his glasses higher on his nose, "John."

"Okay," the doctor breathes out and seems to accept his fate without further complain. Harry is pleased and decides that he actually kinda likes this guy. He can only hope that Sherlock won't break him. Or the detective's older brother for that matter.

 

* * *

 

 

Exactly seven minutes later they pull into an almost-empty warehouse. As John gets out of the car and Harry follows him, staying couple meters behind. In the end, there is no telling how the doctor will react to kidnap-situation where he himself is the hostage, giving his background. Therefore, Harry feels the need to stick close and pay attention.

John limps forward, leaning heavily on his cane. It is clearly an attempt to make him look harmless and possibly wounded even though the reality is different. It could maybe work on anyone who isn't a Holmes. The said man gestures to a chair with the point of his umbrella, and Harry has to forcefully stop himself from admiring the elegance and posture of the Man. He needs to concentrate.

"Have a seat, John," Mr. Holmes suggest with a voice that is clearly meant to say that really, there are no other options.

Dr. Watson's voice is remarkably calm.

"You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but er… you could just phone me. On my phone."

Harry can see him taking a good look around the warehouse, mapping it out. The limping man straight-out ignores the offered chair and stops a few paces in front of Mr. Holmes. Harry also steps closer, keeping watch on the doctor from the corner of his eye.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place," Mr. Holmes says with a pleasant smile on his face. Then the face becomes a bit more stern. "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't wanna sit down."

Harry's eyebrows twitch just a notch upwards and he has to stop the twitching of the corner of his mouth as well. My, my… Doctor John Hamish Watson, was it?

"You don't seem very afraid," Mr. Holmes says, looking at the doctor with newfound curiosity.

"You don't seem very frightening."

The phrase makes both Harry and his employer laugh. Watson takes a look at him over his shoulder but Harry has once more concentrated of his phone, eyes cast downwards.

"Ah, yes," Mr. Holmes continues, "the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

Without waiting for an answer, he asks more seriously: "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him…" John looks thoughtful, and then fails at hiding his own surprise, "…yesterday."

"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

His employer's wit makes Harry smirk widely, if only for a moment.

"Who _are_ you?" Watson asks, suddenly more alarmed.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him," Mr. Holmes says with bit of irritation in his voice. "How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

Dr. Watson seems a bit taken aback by that.

"An enemy?"

"In _his_ mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

Pointedly, the blond haired doctor looks around the warehouse.

"Well, thank God you're above all that."

Harry can't help him. The good doctor's words make him laugh again. Whichever makes the Man frown, Watson's words or Harry's reaction, he doesn't know, but they are interrupted by Watson's phone which trills a text alert. Instantly the man checks the message, ignoring Harry's boss. The action clearly annoys the Man but he doesn't let it show.

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

"Not distracting at all," the doctor answers with fake casualty and pockets his phone.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I could be wrong… but I think that's none of your business."

Mr. Holmes' smile tightens and his eyes sharpen.

"It could be."

"It _really_ couldn't," the doctor continues just as surely, unfazed.

"If you do move into, um.." The Man makes a move to get a notebook from inside of his pocket but Harry is faster. That's what he is paid to be anyway.

"Two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street."

Watson takes a good look at him and Harry can see the danger in the doctor's eyes. He is getting angry and quite frankly, Harry can't really blame him. Harry answers his gaze calmly from under his eyebrows.

"Ah yes, to Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on regular basis to…" For a second Mr. Holmes searches for the right phrasing, "ease your way."

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man," the Man answers as if it's obvious.

"In exchange of what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel… uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about him," Mr. Holmes confesses, his face stoic. "Constantly."

"That's nice of you," Watson mutters, clearly not impressed.

"I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult relationship."

Harry has no option but to agree with that. No truer words were ever told. Once again, the doctor's phone makes a noise and he reads the message displayed on it.

"No," the doctor says, his voice sure.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

Harry knows the figure. It is quite handsome indeed, almost as much as the Man is paying him. Almost.

"Don't bother."

Mr. Holmes laughs insincerely and briefly: "You're very loyal, _very_ quickly."

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."

Mr. Holmes stops and looks closely at the ex-military man in front of him.

"Harris, what did it say about Dr. Watson here, again?"

Harry takes a step forward and meets his employers gaze. Also Watson is looking at him expectedly.

"'Trust issues' it said, sir."

For the first time during the whole meeting, Dr. Watson looks a little unnerved.

"What's that?"

"Trust issues," Harry repeats with burning green eyes. As a military man, Dr. Watson surely recognizes the danger in the man in front of him. There's three dangerous persons in the room and the British Government hasn't even allowed a glimpse of his own true power, apart from being able to make security cameras go haywire, so a flash of his employer's power must suffice.

"Could it be," Mr. Holmes draws the doctor's attention back to himself, "that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done?"

Now Watson is really getting pissed, Harry can tell. His face is carefully controlled and posture stiff, ready to take action. Mr. Holmes looks directly in the doctor's bluish eyes.

"You tell me."

Taking the order as it is, John Watson turns his back on him and starts to walk away. Harry steps out of his way.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

Oh, Harry loves this. The flashes of pure intellectuality that Mr. Holmes shows are his newest addiction. John's thoughts are clearly not on the same road with Harry. His shoulders are tense and he angrily shakes his head a little.

"My what?"

"Show me," Mr. Holmes says calmly and nods towards Watson's left hand. He plants the tip of his beloved umbrella on the floor and leans on it like a man who is used to having his orders obeyed. Harry is to be partly blamed on that one. In a small attempt of rebellion the doctor merely raises his hand so that Mr. Holmes is forced to move instead.

It doesn't seem to bother the man who hooks the handle of the umbrella on his arm and strolls forward. As he reaches for John's hand, the doctor quickly pulls it away, facial muscles spasming.

"Don't."

The Man merely lowers his head and raises his eyebrows in a coaxing manner. The hand rests between Mr. Holmes' for a fleeting moment and is then released.

"Remarkable."

"What is?"

The man with the umbrella turns away and as he slowly walks, explains himself as well: "Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield."

He turns to meet Watson again on the exact same spot where he stood when they first met.

"You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?"

The Man humors him with an explanation: "You have an intermitted tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you are haunted by memories of your military service."

Watson ain't happy. But this isn't a happy meeting to begin with.

"Who the hell _are_ you? How do you know that?"

"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it."

It is obvious and Harry can sympathize. Oh, the doctor has no idea how much he can sympathize with that. By those words, Harry decides he likes the man. A lot.

Dr. Watson's eyes raise to meet the Man's as the said man dramatically whispers: "Welcome back." Then he is already walking away, umbrella twirling as he goes. Watson's phone trills another text alert.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson."

John Watson is rooted on the spot for a few moments, before he takes out his phone again to check the new message. Harry steps towards him, eyes cast on the Blackberry as well.

"I'm to take you home, doctor."

After pocketing his phone, Watson stares at his own hand for a moment in wonder and then proceeds to smile wryly.

"Address?" Harry asks, not really needing an answer but attempting to be polite.

"Err," the doctor turns his way. "Don't you know already?"

Harry ceases to tap on his phone and meets the challenging eyes of the doctor.

"Yes," he tilts his head a little with a small smile on his narrow lips. "Does it bother you?"

"Yes? No! I mean… You know what, I'm not discussing this with you. We can head off, but I need to stop off somewhere first."

 

* * *

 

 

The car pulls up in front of 221B Baker Street half an hour later. This time, Watson has chosen a seat across from Harry clearly trying to figure him out. He has been staring at him during the whole ride.

"Listen, your boss - any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?"

Harry meets his eyes and slowly nods his head trying not to let the truth slip.

"You've told him already, haven't you?"

Harry can't help the laugh that breaks trough him. He brushes a hand trough his black hair, messing it up even further.

"Yeah."

John sighs deeply and nods in resignation. He is just about to get out of the car when he turns back to look at Harry with sudden interest.

"Hey, um… do you ever get any free time?"

Harry, who has the Blackberry on his hands again, cackles at the question. As if.

"Oh, yeah. Lots."

Silence meets him. Surprised, he raises his gaze from the bright screen of his mobile phone, only to find the doctor looking at him expectantly. Oh.

Well, the thought isn't exactly appalling. John Watson is a very handsome, brave and nice man. But he is thirsting for the adventure Harry cannot at the moment offer with all his time devoted to Mr. Holmes. Besides, John has a Holmes of his own waiting for him upstairs of 221B.

Harry's green eyes drift past Watson to the door of Mr. smart-mouth the younger. He might as well put an end to this thought.

"Bye."

"Okay."

The black haired wizard watches as the other gets out of the Bentley and limps to the door. The Blackberry vibrates on his hand.

_Come back. Need you. - MH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter I used the help of transcript of A Study in Pink by Ariane DeVere.


	4. The Defender

Marie has the same annoying presence around her as Lavender Brown had had when she had still been alive, Harry decides.

He is sipping his third cup of coffee, served by none other than miss Marie. The point of the meeting, lead by Mr. Holmes, has completely escaped Harry a long time ago as the conversation around him has been going on for more than two hours. As he has been lazily looking out of the skyscrapers window for the whole duration of it, Marie's hourly appearances are a nice break. In a way.

She is offering coffee and tea to anyone who turns to look at her with a smile, which means most males in the room, and Harry is observing carefully but discreetly.

She is pretty and pleasant, alright. She knows how to treat the men with a lot of power without coming across as pushy. However, there is this lingering flirtation in the corner of her mouth and twinkling in her eyes, not to mention the _accidental_ glimpses of her cleavage.

Ever since their meeting, Harry has noticed a change in her though. Marie doesn't pay as much attention to Mr. Holmes as Harry had originally expected, or dreaded perhaps. Instead her eyes seem to wander to Harry more often than not. Or more specifically, from Harry to Mr. Holmes and back. It is never a malicious look. It is never a jealous look. More like intrigued and, dare he say it, exited. It gives Harry creeps.

"Good day, gentlemen."

Harry is forcefully snapped out of his thoughts as the Man closes the meeting and people start to wander off. On the next instant, he is at his employer's side and they start to walk towards the Man's office in companionable silence.

"Interesting meeting, wasn't it Harry?"

The black haired wizard nods slowly.

"Indeed, sir."

"I will be expecting notes from it by the evening, if that's okay with you?"

Harry can feel small droplets of sweat forming on his forehead.

"Absolutely, sir. It was a very important meeting after all. Very important."

Oh fuck and buggers. He is in so much trouble.

"Of course, I'm merely pulling your leg, Harry."

"Of course, you are merely… What?"

"I know you weren't exactly attentive in there. Well, not towards the meeting in any case."

They enter an elevator, Harry stumbling after the Man, neck burning in such deep color of red that even Ron Weasley would be proud of him. The Man is barely hiding his smile.

"Uh, sorry sir. Staying alert for over two hours in a meeting concerning new piping is not my strongest character feature."

"Perfectly alright, Harry. That is not why I require your assistance."

They stand in silence, eyes locked with closing grey elevator doors. Then there is a slight change in Mr. Holmes. It is barely a shift when he changes his posture, raising his chin a little higher. He actually hesitates before speaking.

"I could not help noticing… that you were directing most of your attentiveness towards miss Marie. You find her pleasing, I presume?"

Beside him, Harry raises his eyebrows. Maybe he hadn't been as discreet as he had assumed.

"Well… I guess so. She is… pretty?"

Harry is actually having hard time complementing their new secretary. His 'pretty' sounded almost as if it had a question mark glued to it. Mostly, to him, Marie was just another Lavender Brown with better cleavage and behind. But it is not exactly as if he could share his concerns about Marie's unwavering gaze towards him to his boss.

"Yes, she is," the ginger haired man agrees, "and I do believe she finds you attractive as well, giving the looks she send you."

It is very near that Harry chokes on his own spit.

"I very much doubt that, sir."

Mycroft turns to look at him with sharp grey eyes.

"What makes you say that?"

The wizard tries frantically search his brains for acceptable explanation, so that he wouldn't be forced to explain the looks she was giving him. It is not like he understood them either.

"Just.. a feeling, I guess? I don't think she finds _me_ attractive."

"But why on earth not? I believe you are very easy on the eyes."

They stare at each other, both from the corners of their eyes, frozen. Harry can feel his heartbeat throbbing in his throat.

"Compared to the average, I mean," Mr. Holmes says slowly, "statistically that is. Many people would find you attractive if the theories of western concepts of beauty are to believe."

"Oh," is all Harry has time to say before the elevator doors opens, revealing no other than Marie who was just walking pass it. She stops to stare at them.

"Hello."

"Afternoon, Marie," Mr. Holmes is himself in the next second, calm and collected and steps out of the elevator, heading towards his office. Harry is just about to join him when Marie steps forward and to the wizard's surprise, clings to his arm.

Mr. Holmes stops walking when he hears Harry's footsteps fade and turns to look at them.

Marie has circled her arms around Harry's, her red nails forming a firm grip on his black suit. His arm is basically smashed between her breasts and damn it, he can help his eyes wandering downwards, he is a man after all.

"Hugh," Marie chirps at him, still using the name Harry first time gave her. She is smiling brightly. "Could I borrow you for a minute?"

"Uu-uh, what? Umm, no thanks," he says unintelligently. "I mean, not right now."

Marie's lips pucker is a pout and she pushes her pelvic against Harry's limp arm in which she is clinging to. Such a small move but very effective. Harry's face turns scarlet, partly because of embarrassment and partly because of mortification.

"May I borrow him," Marie turns to look at Harry's employer, "Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft Holmes seems rooted to his spot, mouth in a thin line but eyes a bit wider than normally. It is clear that he has to force himself to look relaxed.

"Of course. It must be..," his eyes linger on Marie's figure which is pressed against the dark haired man, "important." The smile he gives them is the worst fake smile Harry has ever seen him give to anyone, ever.

"What the fuck," is all Harry can mutter under his breath before Marie is dragging him along the corridors. They walk past many door, some open, some not, until they reach a large balcony. When the cool wind hits Harry in the face he finally startles.

"Ok, enough. What in the hell are you doing?"

Marie rolls her eyes at him and sits on a upholstered chair. She crosses her legs elegantly and lights a cigarette. Green L&M. Figures.

"Sit down, Harry."

The wizard in fancy black suit wrinkles his nose at her, and bristles at the sound of his name. Again, Marie sighs and rolls her brown eyes.

"I've heard Holmes call you that a million times. Now please. Sit. Down."

Reluctantly, Harry does what he is told. He's been getting awfully good at that lately. He blames Mr. Holmes. The wizard runs a hand trough his wild black hair which is already totally messed up by the wind. Cigarette smoke whips around Marie's face as she continues to stare Harry down with her cat eyes.

"Well, what?"

She offers him a cigarette. Normally, Harry doesn't smoke but in this bizarre event he feels like he should. So he does. Immediately he feels his shoulder-muscles loosen up in relaxation when he indulges into one of his not so healthy habits.

"Now will you talk? What the hell was _that_ all about?"

Marie shrugs her right shoulder and waves her cigarette holding hand in air, as if to come up with a imaginary reason.

"Jealousy?"

"Of what?"

"Of you guys of course. Don't be dim."

Harry rubs the palm of his hand against his eyes.

"Of _us_? I'm really not following."

Marie groans at him, flicking ashes off the butt of her cigarette.

"Yes, of you two. So tell me, how far exactly are you with your boss? Going by the lovely shade of red you had on your face when you stepped out from the elevator, you at least make out with him."

Suddenly the cigarette smoke fills his lungs at his fast intake of breath, making him cough violently.

" _Excuse me_?"

"You're so boring. Do you normally act like a virgin?" Marie takes another drag from her smoke and grins with her teeth. "So, how far are you? Did you make it into his bed? Or is it just an office thing? Does he make you lick his shoes by any chance? Ooh, does he make _you_ spank _him_?"

Harry can't help himself, he's gaping. Then he furrows his eyebrows and looks around them, just to check that no one is in the hearing distance. The look he gives Marie is incredulous.

"You're… You're actually interested aren't you? You aren't mocking about."

"Uh, hells yeah I'm interested. Two of the hottest guys in the office together? I thank Jesus every night for getting me this job."

"You like it," Harry states slowly, "when two guys are together?"

"U-huh," Marie chirps and throws the cigarette to the wind. Literally.

"You're really weird, you know that?"

The statement makes the blond woman cock her head sideways and pucker her lips. The wind blows on her face and she has to pull off few hairs from her lips where they get stuck on her lipstick.

"Don't be mean, I'm trying to help you here. Besides, this," she twirls her delicate hand in the air, " _revelation_ of you two has just made you one enemy less."

"Help me at what?" Harry almost shouts at her. "There is no need for that. We aren't together. I just work for him! And what do you mean by _enemies_?"

"Pfft!" Marie smirks at him, her smile genuine. "Maybe you work for him for now. But you clearly want to fuck him, don't you? Or maybe you want him to fuck you? Well, get in the line boy because so do half of the women who work in this building. Few men included."

Harry is at loss of words. He waves his hand in the air as a sign of giving up.

"I can't believe… Unbelievable."

He raises to make his exit but the cat eyed woman is faster. Once again those red claws sink into the fabric of his, thank you very much Mr. Holmes, extremely expensive suit.

"Don't worry, I'm not planning on telling anyone. I want to help you."

"There is nothing to help me with."

"Don't be such a wood-head. It is clear as day."

That makes Harry swallow and then his _Avada Kedavra_ colored eyes flash with murderous intent. Marie, like a wise girl she is, takes a unsure step back.

"You tell anyone," Harry says, his voice barely a whisper over the wind, "and I will kill you."

Marie's brown eyes widen for a second with fright. Then she swallows as well. Her voice breaks merely on the last note.

"Now I can see why you are his personal assistant."

They stare at each other, eyes calculative and unsure of what to do next.

"Look, I'm sorry I made you mad," Marie says in the end, "but I am really on your side here. And by the fact that you haven't gotten even to the first base with the boss tells me, that you really need help."

 

* * *

 

Harry stops outside the Man's office and bites his thumb. It has been a really weird day, even for him. He and Marie had actually separated in pretty good terms, she even kissed him softly on the cheek and wished him luck. He had probably scared her more than he had been intending on.

As he walks into the room, Mycroft's gaze roams sharply over his entire attire. It is like a knife, cutting off the edges of his forced calmness.

Harry calms himself from the inside, he has to, because damn his boss can have a scary face when he wishes. It is not like Harry has done anything wrong.

Then he remembers that his hair is completely out of place and raises his hand to comp it down. Apparently Mr. Holmes takes that as a cue that Harry has done something wrong. The older man clears his throat.

"Enjoyed yourself?"

There is a certain bite present there, under the layer of practiced coolness. Harry can feel the irritation burning in his skull and teeth. Magic bolts down his spine like an invisible firecracker.

"Not really," he answers, leaving clear challenge hanging in the air.

"She just wanted to chat."

"About?"

Again, they stare at each other. Harry narrows his eyes at his employer, green eyes burning.

"About things," he drawls agonizingly slowly, "and also stuff."

Tea cup, which had been in the Man's hand the whole time, clicks loudly against the saucer. He raises from his seat and strolls across the room, stopping very close to his employee.

His warm hand presses against Harry's cheek and immediately all fight leaves the wizard. It is almost embarrassing how easily he lets the Man touch him. Their eyes gaze upon each other and the shorter man can feel his toes curling in his shoes.

"Pardon me," Mycroft almost growls as his thumb slides roughly against Harry's cheek, "you had some lipstick right there."

Harry's stomach drops.

 

* * *

 

Things were shaping up to be pretty odd. The cold shoulder which the Man is serving him is killing Harry. Their interactions are mechanical, professional and nerve wrecking.

The black haired wizard is quickly reaching his boiling point. It is not like he has done anything wrong, he may belong to Mr. Holmes but he does not _belong_ to him. They are not a thing, never have been, not yet. That is why Harry can feel his blood surge trough his veins every time the British Government acts as if he is punishing him.

That is exactly what this is, Harry is receiving a punishment. Unjust, nonetheless. Part of him wants to explain and beg Mycroft to understand but his stubborn trait has him grounded. Like hell he is going to grovel at the Man's feet begging for forgiveness for something he did not do.

In a way it is a relief when the whole ordeal comes to an abrupt end.

They are the only ones at the top level of a high-rise when it happens. Someone less important had delivered info of someone more important in a form of a memory card. When the man Harry does not recognize leaves, Mr. Holmes has stopped by the window to roll the memory card around in his palm. He is deep in thought, eyes on the card, brows only slightly furrowed and steely glint in his grey eyes.

The umbrella on his other hand twirls and comes to rest against ginger haired man's shoulder.

"Shall we?"

"Yes, sir."

The British Government turns towards the door and at that second Harry's magic surges trough his body along with adrenaline and sharp awareness. Why no one has ever catalogued fear as a superpower, Harry cannot understand. Suddenly he can hear better, see better and everything comes alive around him. On instinct the wizard turns to look out of the large windows on the roof of the opposite building.

Breath leaves Harry's lungs and then he moves between the window and his boss.

As the window breaks with the voice of hundreds chiming bells and pieces of it clatter along the floor, the Man turns to look over his shoulder with alarmed eyes just to see Harry jerk a step forward. The bullet embeds itself deep into the black haired man's shoulder with a thud.

The next second is filled with the voices of clattering glass and two pairs of wide eyes staring at each other.

Instinct takes over and Harry tackles his boss behind a sturdy table and covers his body with his own. The moment is pure adrenaline and haze but Harry gathers his employers head between his arms to protect him and aligns his body in the way of the bullets. Few of them click against the floor and couple smash trough the table.

"Harry!"

Harry is pretty sure the shout of his name is not helping in any way but it rings in his ears in any case. Second bullet hits him on his side and breath escapes him again in a rush. He thinks he might have blacked out for a second.

Then everything quiets down. Slowly Harry unwraps his arms from around his employer's head. He is on his hands and knees above the other other man. Well, more like balancing on one hand because he other hanging limply from it's socket.

Dark blood slowly drips on the floor from Harry's side. There are smudges of it, probably from his shoulder wound, on the Man's suit and even on his face.

Finally, Harry thinks sluggishly, a real emotion.

The grey eyes are impossibly wide and the lips Harry has sometimes dreamed of kissing are parted in horror.

"Stupid…"

That's all Harry manages to breath out before he falls on the floor right next to the Man, pain suddenly rushing back with white flashes of hellfire and cold sweat. It is so different from Cruciatus Curse. The pain focused on two points of his body, spreading trough his nerve system like burning lava.

Grey eyes are still glued upwards where Harry had just been hovering. Mr. Holmes seems to be under a shock, breath coming out in short, panicked pants.

Harry can see his own vision field shrinking. Either bullet - or in worse case both - had probably punctured one of his major arteries. He is going to die from blood loss if Mr. Holmes doesn't get himself under control and fast. Harry's face has gone numb and he's long pass the point of being capable of speaking. His cheek rests against the coolness of the floor.

Suddenly and idea hits him. He is dying. That's it! That's the key to his survival.

Slowly he reaches for Mycroft's hand with his healthy one and grasps it with the force of a dying man. The action snaps the older man back to reality and his gaze turns towards the wizard.

" _Legilimens_."

Harry's green eyes burn hotly even when glazed over with pain. He forces his thoughts trough Mycroft's surprisingly hard mind-defence and thrusts them on his consciousness.

" _Don't you dare to faint on me, Mycroft Holmes. It will be the death of me_."

As if been hit by the lightning, Mycroft scrambles on his knees but Harry refuses to let go of his sweaty hand.

" _Listen. The phone I have. You will find a person named Granger from the contact list. Call her. She can save me_."

His hand is finally slipping. So is his own consciousness.

" _Call Hermione_."

After that it's all just darkness, someone's hands on his face and shouts that he cannot make sense of.


	5. The Failure

When Harry finally come to his senses the first thing that he notices is the soft bed he is lying on. Next is the ache in his abused body.

The pain is much less than he expected after what he's been trough. It's dull, more like a hum in his bones and skin and between, rather than the sharp and unyielding pain it had been at the moment he had blacked out. And the magic. It's all around him like a ghost breeze of wind outside any building is.

Carefully, slowly, Harry opens his green eyes to see the world around him.

"Harry!"

Hermione is there right next to him and immediately Harry is melting under her worried gaze. Those warm brown eyes and mess of a hair rouse a feeling of nostalgia Harry is completely unprepared to face. How long has it been since he has last seen the smartest part of the Golden Trio? Months, at least.

"Hello, 'Mione," Harry rasps out. His throat is awfully dry from not using it. "Water?"

The glass in placed on his hand and greedily he gulps down the whole thing in one go. His thirst satisfied, Harry smiles at the woman next his hospital bed. His warm, fuzzy, safe feeling is destroyed when his eyes focus on the terrifying look on his best friend's face.

"Harry James Potter," Hermione all but growls out. "You better explain yourself before I hex your sorry ass to the next century. And don't you dare to think I wouldn't do it!"

Awkwardly Harry laughs at her but sobers quickly. Instead he smiles at Hermione, his face all apologetic.

"You know how it goes Hermione, the trouble seems to find me wherever I go."

"Indeed," she bites sharply, "but I never even fathomed that they would follow you into Muggle World as well, of all places."

"I'm sorry I caused you worry," Harry says with complete honesty, grasping her hand into his own. The witch with bushy brown hair sighs deeply but grasps Harry's hand just as firmly.

"You really did. I mean _really_ , Harry? You got shot!"

"Ah, yes," Harry's other hand ghosts over his shoulder. "It was really an accident, I assure you."

"Of course it was. It's not like you to go looking for trouble, is it?"

The sarcasm is clear but it still makes the wizard chuckle.

"Honestly, what are we going to with you?" Hermione sighs again, shaking her head. "You scared us half to death. Again. Can you imagine what it is like to get a phone call like that?"

"Where is Ron by the way?" Harry raises his head from the comfy pillow to look around in the white hospital room. There is no one else there so he probably got a private one. "Where is Mycroft?"

"Uh, your employer is being… contained. He's with Ron, so don't worry."

That makes Harry jump upright and he immediately regrets the action as pain shoots trough his left shoulder and his side. He manages to breath out the words with a hiss.

"But the oath I took… Mycroft is-.. He shouldn't know about-!"

"It's okay! Lie back down, Harry! The bullet seriously injured your shoulder so you shouldn't move for a while. And what comes of the oath, well..," she sniffs angrily and her hold on Harry's palm tightens. "I got Robards to lift it. That absolute moron shouldn't have made you swear it anyway."

The phrase makes Harry's eyebrows lift so high they almost shoot off his forehead.

"Did you just call the Head of the Auror Office a moron?"

"He was certainly acting like one!" Hermione argues heatedly and finally lets go of Harry's hand to stressfully comp her hand trough her hazard hair. "He acts like a pompous arse sometimes. I admit, I do understand his concern with you working with the so-called British Government, and I completely understand his concern regarding our world but he should have known better! It's you, Harry! He should have known that you are probably the only person on this planet who does not need to swear that oath. You know exactly what happens to the people who abuse magic. Robards could have just asked you to keep everything secret. Instead he went on and put you in danger like that and I-," Hermione gasps for breath, her pretty face twisted in anger and fear, "and I just cannot accept that. I just can't."

She sniffs again and fiddles with the edge of bed sheet.

"Maybe I am biased in thinking this way because you are my friend but he should have known better. He should have!"

"It's alright, 'Mione. Hey," Harry waves his hand to gain the witch's attention once more, "thanks for sticking up for me."

"Well of course I did, silly," Hermione's face splits into toothy grin, "but don't you dare to get shot again. Do that for me, okay?"

"I will do my absolute best to ensure that," the black haired man promises. They remain silent for a while, before Harry gains enough courage to ask the question that has been weighing him down during the whole conversation.

"So… What happens now?"

"It depends on what you want to do," the witch absently continues to tug the sheet with her fingers. "Would you like me to Obliviate Mr. Holmes?"

"No!"

The force in which the word leaves him startle the both of them. After the surprise, Hermione's smile softens.

"Well, that means that you can continue working with him. Robards said you can tell him what is absolutely necessary. Being what he is - a wonderfully clever man - Mr. Holmes will probably start putting pieces together in any case. However, Robards was very clear on keeping the information to bare minimum."

"I can work with that," Harry huffs out with relief. "Will you fill me up on what happened?"

"Of course. It was all very exciting and all, but you did scare us halfway to our graves. When I got the phone call, I immediately gathered together a medical team and we got to you as fast as we could. Harry, when you were lying on that floor…"

Hermione's brown eyes fill up with tears but she manages to blink to the ceiling and contain them. She swipes rest on her sleeve and seems to gather herself.

"I thought you were dead, Harry. That is a sight that I never want to re-live again but it will probably follow me into nightmares. There was so much blood… The bullet on your upper body had destroyed you shoulder point and it would have left you permanently crippled if it were not for the healers. Also, it had punctured the brachial artery which made you almost bleed out. Miraculously the bullet on your side did less damage, missing the vital organs. Some damage was done there too, so it would be for the best if you stayed in bed for a while."

"What about Mycroft?" Harry asks eagerly. "Is Mycroft alright? He wasn't hit, was he?"

"No, no, he was fine… Shocked, of course, but otherwise fine."

"I see," Harry relaxes back on the bed and stares thoughtfully at the ceiling.

"He is a bit strange, isn't he?" Hermione claims suddenly, fiddling now with the strand of hair.

"You mean Mycroft?" Harry chuckles. "Yeah, he is a wonder."

"And very… Intimidating. The way he reads people, it's like…"

"Like magic? I thought so myself but no, he is a muggle through and through. Not a flicker of magic in him."

"Fascinating," Hermione mumbles more to herself than Harry. "After being used to Magical World, I never thought I would find something from the Muggle World that could compete with it. Mr. Holmes is something else entirely."

Dark laugh escapes Harry's lungs.

"Hey, hey… Don't you steal him from me, 'Mione!"

"I wouldn't dream of it," she chuckles warmly back at him. Then she quiets down and the most regular of her looks fall upon her face once more: worry.

"You like him, don't you?"

Harry is about to deny it. He really is, mostly out of habit than anything else. Changing his mind, he merely sighs and rubs his face with his healthy hand.

"Yes, well… He is… He is exactly what I need, Hermione. With him I can refocus myself. I'm more in control, I'm fast, clever… And he needs me 'Mione and I like that. I like being needed."

"Being who you are - what you are - I'm not actually too surprised by the state of things," Hermione agrees slowly, mind clearly whirring with thoughts, "but I just want to remind you, that people with strong personalities are the most interesting of people. And I'm sure that was what made him notice you."

"You are afraid that he is somehow pushing down my personality?" Harry almost laughs at the witch. "Can you actually see me agreeing on that?"

"No. But I don't think you're even seeing it. I just want you to not make him the centre of your universe, Harry. Because he isn't."

"I know he isn't!"

"And I know you know. For now at least, and I'd like to keep things that way. You cannot deny that you have this way of… being sucked into things. I need you to remember to be your own person."

"You're not making much sense, 'Mione."

"I'm making perfect sense!" Hermione argues. "We both know what happened during the war. You… modified yourself to became what people needed of you because you were declared the Chosen One. But you don't have to do that anymore."

The way Hermione takes hold of his hand again is the only reason why Harry isn't bursting with arguments of his own.

"You don't have to, Harry. Please, give yourself a chance to enjoy this life. You have something good going on with Mr. Holmes, I get that vibe off the two of you. You don't have to become your job. And I'm sure Mr. Holmes doesn't just want an assistant." The woman's facial features soften and a small smile turns the corners of her mouth upwards. "He wants _Harry_ as well."

"I've been skirting around the idea of… of having a relationship with him," Harry mutters, his eyes cast away from his friend, "but the job was more important. Because at least with the job I could be around him. If I were to push my… affections upon him, it could all go south from there."

"If you want to keep playing it safe, then you can," Hermione nods slowly in agreement, "but are you sure you're ready to sacrifice what could be?"

They both stay silent for a long while before a sarcastic snort escapes Harry. He has never been very good with long silences.

"My life just can't get less complicated, huh?"

That makes the brown haired woman laugh merrily.

"Oh, Harry. At least that's a _normal_ problem."

"Me? Normal? Shed the idea at once, woman!"

"Oh, come on you!"

"If you two are quite done?"

The two magic wielders jump and turn to stare at Ron Weasley, who has just barged trough the doors. His gaze meets two pairs of wide eyes.

"I have a almost hysterical muggle - who can hide that damn well by the way - on my hands and you two are here, giggling?"

Ron's face is almost as red as his hair, his breath coming out in great puffs. He strides to Harry's hospital bed and takes a seat across from his wife.

"He is driving me crazy, Harry! All the damn questions! If he wasn't so important to you, I would be delighted to stun him just to shut him up!"

"You mean Mycroft?" Harry asks with furrowed eyebrows. "He is _hysterical_?"

"Well, I think he is." Ron is looking a bit bewildered himself and shrugs. "That's usually what happens to muggles who discover our world or see a glimpse of it. They panic, go trough hysteria, then defiance and finally acceptance. Of course, as you like being around weird people, he seems to be very good at hiding these things."

"You do realize you just badmouthed yourself?"

"Not my point and certainly wasn't my intention. Anyway, I need you to figure out what you're going to do with him. And fast."

Harry and Ron look at each other until Ron's breathing has calmed down. The ginger clears his throat. The stubble he has makes him looks years older than he is. Might have something to do with the bags under his eyes as well.

"And I'm bloody happy to see you in one piece, mate."

Harry chuckles at his friend.

"Yeah, great to see you too. How's work?"

"Yeah, been great. Been busy. Very busy, Hermione has had to rub my feet every evening to relief the stress."

Harry recoils in disgust.

"Ugh, wow… Do your feet still stink as bad as they used to?"

"Oh believe me," Hermione adds slowly, "they do."

"I guess for the sake of love…"

"That's not a sacrifice. That's suicide."

"Totally exaggerating."

"So not, I have years of experience for proof."

"Ditto here. Now I feel sorry for myself."

"I feel sorry for you too, 'Mione."

"Enough with the self-pity, you two!"

"Easy for you to say!"

"Hey, I have to live with my feet!"

"You do realize you just made fun of yourself. Again."

"Oh come off of it. My wife is clever so I don't have to be."

"Ron!"

"Just joking, honey. Totally joking."

Hermione glares at Ron for a while longer before turning to the matter at hand.

"I guess the question remains the same: what happens next?"

The black haired man slowly exhales and places the glasses on his nightstand back on his nose.

"Well, I can actually have a guess at that… I'm going to get sacked."

 

* * *

  

The word "contained" which Hermione had used to describe the situation Mycroft was in was quite fitting. Otherwise than being a bit pale and dapping his forehead casually with his white handkerchief once in a while, Mycroft Holmes did not show any signs of stress. Or, as a matter of fact, any signs that would tell that he had almost been killed.

While Harry had been unconscious, bleeding and barely breathing Mycroft was only left with the choice to wait in the room next to the operating room. The man with hideous stubble and flaming red hair had made sure of that.

The Unit, Ron had said, this was a matter of the Unit now and they would take care of Harry.

And for once in his life, Mycroft was left with only the choice to allow that to happen. The doors were locked without actual locks or doorhandles, his phone was dead and there were no windows. If Harry hadn't shown any faith in these people in the past, Mycroft would have acted. Instead, he had decided to have faith in Harry.

Of that, Harry himself was now glad. Dread filled him slowly from the tip of his toes to the top of his head. What made it worse was the fact that he wasn't even allowed to get up to meet his employer. He felt strangely vulnerable.

He could hear Mycroft's steps as they grew near to his bed and slowly Harry turned to meet his grey eyes.

"Hello, Harry," Mycroft said slowly, his weight leaning on the umbrella.

"Hello," Harry answered just as slowly but much more unsurely. He felt how the grey eyes scanned the small nicks on his face that were still angry red. They would leave no scars, he had been told.

"I know what you're going to say," Harry grunts and turns his eyes to face the wall.

"Do you now?"

"And I know what you want to ask. But I have no answers for you," the dark haired man explains carefully, his voice barely a whisper. "I imagine you are tired of not having answers."

"It is not pleasant sensation, no."

"Yeah… I bet not," there's a humorless laugh. "That is just how I know what you're going to do."

"Which in this case would be..?"

"You're going to fire me."

Harry has to swallow hard. He can feel his Adam's apple pop. The dread has completely engulfed him and he has to force the words out.

"Because how could you work with someone who can't tell you anything about themselves. About who he is. About what he has done. It would be too great of a risk to you."

Harry's fingers are twitching.

"But of course, that's not the only reason."

"Do tell."

"I'm your bodyguard," Harry states the obvious, "and the minute I had to resolve in using my own body as a shield meant failure. I'm a professional. I know that when things come to that you have already failed. Bodyguard's duty is not act as a live human-shield. It is to prevent things ever escalating to that. To take enough precautions. Preventative action."

He has to swallow again and close his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, Mycroft hasn't moved.

"You should go," the wizard says quietly. "Ask Hermione to take you home. Or back to your office"

"Yes," Mycroft agrees quietly, still eyeing Harry. "I should."

"Then why aren't you going?"

"Why did you take the bullet?"

Harry's lips are tightly pressed together for a moment before answering.

"Isn't the question; why wouldn't I have taken it?"

"To prove you professionalism, your loyalty, the first bullet would have been more than sufficient. Your job would have been fulfilled," there is a break and then the Man continues with curiosity in his voice, "but no, after the first one, you forced yourself to move, to save me. And took another shot. Without any hesitation. Why?"

Once again, without humor, Harry laughs.

"Well why do you think? What does it even matter?"

"It was very impressive. It was like you couldn't even feel the pain."

"It's not that I don't feel pain," tiredness has crawled into Harry's voice while Mycroft's is turning into steel. "It's just that I'm not afraid of getting hurt anymore. Remind me again, why are we having this conversation? Shouldn't you be heading back to London?"

"Why did you take the bullet?"

"' _Why_?'"

Harry is getting angry now. Why couldn't Mycroft just leave already and leave him in peace. He had things to do now. Mostly, wallowing in self-pity for the rest of his life.

"I took the bullet because taking it hurt less than the loneliness before it. Because not taking it would have meant losing you."

Behind his glasses Harry can see Mycroft's hand tightening on the handle of the umbrella. His own breath is strangely short. Erratic beating of his heart makes him briefly fear the possibility of an heart-attack.

Then the man in the three-piece suit moves closer and sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from Harry. They stay there, completely still for a second before Mycroft speaks.

"For the longest time," he starts and surprises Harry with how hesitant his voice is. " _Real people_ have held no interest for me. For the longest time, I thought _Sherlock_ was an idiot because as children we had nothing else to go on. That was, of course, before we met other people. Real people."

He looks at Harry from the corner of his eye.

"If I thought Sherlock was slow, how do you imagine the rest of the world seemed to me?"

The green eyed man stares at the other in wonder. Of course he is aware of Mycroft's intelligence. He has seen his brain at work and it is magnificent, breathtaking even. He is jolted out of his thoughts when the other man continues.

"Do you have any idea how interesting you were? I looked at you and I could read your emotions as clear as a day, written across your features. But everything else… it didn't… fit. I looked at you and you weren't playing by my rules. It was like you were not even part of this world."

"You're exaggerating," Harry murmurs, his green eyes slightly wide.

"I do not tend to."

Mycroft's fingertips are faintly tapping on the umbrella.

"I felt like I was awake for the first time in years."

Somewhere in the distance, Harry can hear rain banging on the hospital roof. Everything else but Mycroft and his voice and the rain have blurred out of focus.

"I felt like I had been working on automatic before you snapped me out of it. And my God, did it feel intoxicating."

Breath is now altogether stuck in his throat. Harry might faint. He doesn't want to, but he might.

"So, no, Harry, I am not going to fire you. I will even refrain from asking you any question for now, if you just… if you can in any way be coaxed to come back to London with me, I would be delighted."

Don't faint, Harry frantically begs himself. Deep breath fills his lungs and he rubs the dancing white and black spots out of his eyes. Mycroft is still talking.

"I am of course hoping that we'll be leaving this building together. We have some work to do after all, the man that shot you, for example… He needs to be removed from the equation."

Harry wants these stupid wounds to heal right now. In this instance. How he is going to explain the thought-reading to Mycroft in the future, he doesn't know. He doesn't even care. The Unbreakable Vow doesn't concern him anymore and he is free to do as he wishes. There'll be right time and place for that conversation but it isn't right now. But soon, very soon. When Mycroft is ready.

"Harry," the ginger haired man is tense, his knuckles white. "You are very quiet."

"Nobody plans a murder out loud," he instantly answers and tension leaves his employer. There's tiny smile that rises on those thin lips and a huge one on Harry's own. The wizard also makes notice of the plain relief on the man's shoulders.

"So, what is our first move?"

There is something weird, something different about how the light hits those steely grey eyes. A hand leaves the umbrella handle and pats Harry's tight like people do when they are relieved that someone close to them has survived in hospital.

"Well, my dear friend," Mycroft says softly. "I've been thinking of getting a goldfish."


End file.
